


Episode One: Red Vines

by Lorien, Lucidnancyboy



Series: The Self-Sacrificial Steve & Bucky Show [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky likes Nine Inch Nails, Bucky/Clint Bromance, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Depression, Dick Jokes, Explicit Language, First Kiss, First Time, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Graphic Violence, Guilt, Hallucinations, He's cool like that, Humor, Hurt! Bucky, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Lack of Communication, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Pining, Poetry, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Hatred, Sweetness, Switch Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark comes around to being a good bro, Tony and his robot-dog Astro, Torture, gratuitous use of candy, ill-advised toe sucking, incidences of passive self-harm, intrusive thoughs, lots of fun and lots of angst (like Sour Patch Kids), moments/situations that could be interpreted as suicidal, naughty apple pie, philosophical musing (Steve gets deep), references to suicide (Steve), switch steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy
Summary: Bucky was different now. He thought his Grumpy Cat t-shirt was pretty indicative of the changes, but Steve didn’t get it (even though he tried really hard). He couldn’t fault Steve for trying to be Stevie, or for getting frustrated when Bucky shut down or listened to Nine Inch Nails way too loud. But the truth of the matter was, no matter how many nostalgic candy bracelets Steve tied around Bucky’s wrist, James Buchanan Barnes was never coming back. Steve refused to give up though, and Bucky had always been a sucker for that particular pair of sappy blue eyes attached to one very persuasive punk...so, against his better judgement, he let Steve back in.But when the shit inevitably hit the fan, and Steve had to witness Sergeant Barnes' dramatic return, Bucky knew he'd fucked up. Because there were four things that every version of Bucky Barnes did over and over and over. He should put them on a goddamn refrigerator magnet; you know, as a warning to anyone who thought hanging out with Bucky was a stellar idea.THINGS BUCKY DOES BEST:1. Bucky gets captured 2. Bucky gets people killed 3. Bucky fucks shit up. 4. Bucky makes Steve fall apart.Some things never change.





	1. Licorice

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang  
> [capreversebb](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com//)  
> We will be posting new chapters regularly along with drawings by Lorien (drjezdzany) to accompany each chapter. The final chapter will be posted May 20th.
> 
> Please be aware, this story deals with dark subject matter in a few places (specifically relating to passive self-harm and torture). If you're unsure about this, or need clarification on any of the tags, feel free to contact either one of us on tumblr (links in the end notes).
> 
> lucidnancyboy (Jessie Lucid): This has been a phenomenal collaborative experience, and I couldn’t have asked for a better partner in crime than Lorien! Not only did she create a stunning drawing and emotional headcanon that inspired the entire story, but she went above and beyond to draw four more images that are equally beautiful! Her endless patience with my lack of comma skills should be rewarded with gallons and gallons of ice cream and her knack for research makes me want to keep her forever! Lorien, you’re the real deal, and I feel so blessed that we got to work together! 
> 
> Also, thank you to the wonderful rbb mods who’ve been so supportive and kind. Your hard work putting this together is appreciated! Thank you!
> 
> Lorien (drjezdzany): A big shout out to the cap rbb mods! Thank you for all your hard work in organizing this incredible experience, for your unending patience and helpfulness, and for always being so nice to us! You are awesome!!
> 
> And another very big thank you to lucidnancyboy! You have been everything I could have hoped for in an author - and so, so much more!!! Not only did you chose my drawing to write for in the first place, you also listened closely to every one of my wishes and included a lot of my headcanons. I still can't believe that you wrote me a story that includes so many of my favourite tropes. XD Thank you! Working with you has been sooo much fun. :)

                                   

 

“I’m too busy for this shit, Steve,” Tony scoffed as he waved and flapped his hands above the mountain of random parts thrown across his workbench. He made a big show of it, like he always did when someone caught him doing something useless.   

Steve tipped his chin at what Tony was working on and raised his eyebrows, because this one might take the cake. It appeared to be some sort of small robot dog holding a shot glass. “Yeah, I can see that. Is this guy gonna take over when you’re too drunk to pick up the glass yourself?”

Tony popped out of his chair, chuckling under his breath as he casually slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked up on the toes of his sneakers. “Oh, and the good ol’ boy’s being a smartass to boot! Aren’t I lucky today?” Clicking his tongue, he jerked his head towards Bucky before really revving things up. “Murder Eyes over there’s rubbing off on your All-American good manners, Steve. Better use more soap in the shower and scrub that shit off before he sinks into your perfectly exfoliated pores. Really, have I asked what skin products you’re using lately? For a guy about to hit one-hundred your face is lookin’ smooth as a baby’s ass.”

He took a few cocky steps forward at patted Steve’s cheek a couple times; the motion making him bristle because there was nothing nice about it. Since Steve had come back to the compound, Tony _never_ did anything nice when it came to Bucky.

“Tony, for god’s sake just…”

Bucky interrupted from where he stood in the back of the workshop, the flat monotone of his voice instantly raising Steve’s alarms. “The third panel in the center of the hand is responding slow and making the palm joints catch when I grip.”

Tony loudly clapped his hands together and pointed a finger at Bucky; the tension in the air tripling in less than a second. Steve felt his blood pressure rising and the muscles of his jaw tightening like rubber bands stretching to capacity. Moving his eyes back and forth between them, it was clearly only a matter of time until something snapped...conflict was imminent. It was like watching two prize fighters in the center of the ring trying to intimidate one another with deep grunts, quick jabs thrown in the air, and squinted eyes loaded with intensity before the metallic clang of the first bell. Steve could hear the overdramatic announcer shouting in his head over the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd...

         

           _In the red corner we have Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, weighing in at a lean mean one-hundred-eighty-four pounds. But don’t let his_

_smaller stature fool you, folks. Stark is known for his tenacity and innovative technique. His one weakness is his tendency to lead with his_

_emotions and with Barnes there’s definitely history. This makes him an unpredictable opponent and could either give Stark the edge_

_or make him careless._

 

_In the blue corner we have Bucky Barnes, aka The Winter Soldier, weighing in at a whopping two-hundred-fifty pounds and looking_

_particularly intense for tonight’s matchup. Barnes is known for his speed and brutality, although, in previous fights with Stark analysts_

_speculate that Barnes was holding back. Only time will tell if he’ll return Stark’s powerful undercut with his trademark left hook or if he’ll_

_let the smaller man take him down._

 

If Steve was a betting man, which he wasn’t, he’d sadly have to place all his chips on Stark. Watching Tony sucking in the skin of his cheeks and slowly nodding, while Bucky started breathing heavily from the top of his lungs, Steve could already see the first round knockout. Everything about it made him want to scream loud enough to explode the strings of lightbulbs hanging above the ring, and to cry into the folds of Bucky’s silk boxing robe at the exact same time! You’d think that watching Bucky’s broad chest heaving beneath the Grumpy Cat t-shirt Clint had bought him last week would provide some welcome comic relief, but looking at their matching scowls...one covered with fur and whiskers and the other with thick stubble and scars...it didn’t seem funny at all.

Tony kept his finger aimed at Bucky as he dropped into his rolling chair; aggressively manspreading for a testosterone fueled moment until he finally put his hands behind his head. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to drop everything and fix you right up, eh, killer? Lemme see if I can clear some room in my schedule. FRIDAY, what do I have on my _very very very_ busy schedule today?”

“Nothing until five o’clock, boss, when you’re scheduled for a conference call with Miss Potts and the board regarding the clean energy project in San Francisco.”

FRIDAY spoke with a thinly veiled hint of sarcasm, which made Steve wonder...was it possible to like a computer more than the man who created it? Looking at Tony squeezing his forehead and growling into his lap, Steve thought, yes, yes it is.

“Didn’t I program you to take a hint? When I say ' _very very very busy schedule',_ you’re supposed to make up a bunch of important sounding shit!”

“Sorry, boss. I assumed you’d just forgotten your schedule, as usual.”

Bucky snorted and Steve felt something like relief. Maybe tonight’s main event would be postponed...?

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the help. You've made it perfectly clear that I need to program this robot dog to take a fucking hint and have my back when The Winter Soldier wants some up-close and personal one-on-one time, since you’re obviously on Team Metal Manson! Jesus FRIDAY!” Tony grabbed his half empty bottle of something and sloshed a heavy handed shot into the dog’s waiting paws.

“It is imperative that Sergeant Barnes’ hand is one-hundred percent functional, boss.”

Oh, that was gonna be the straw that broke the camel’s back. FRIDAY liked Bucky. _Everyone_ liked Bucky except Tony. To be expected? Yeah. But was it fun to live and work with on a day to day basis? Hell no. If Steve didn’t have the serum, he was certain that he’d have a bleeding ulcer by now.

Tony snatched the shot from his metal canine, slamming it back in one gulp before launching the glass over his shoulder. When it shattered on the floor Tony yelled, “For good luck,” before rolling towards the bench where they always worked on the arm. “Step right up then, Sergeant Parasite,” Tony announced before gesturing at the leather chair. “Who am I to deny you one-hundred percent functionality? I mean, _I’ve_ only functioned at fifty-two-percent emotional capacity since, hmm...lemme think here...since R.E.M was ‘Out of Time’...oh that’s a fitting album title isn’t it?...since Kurt Cobain…” Tony narrowed his eyes and huffed out a breath. “Oh, Nevermind.” He cackled and slapped his knees before abruptly snapping his head towards Bucky. “See what I did there? No? Oh that’s right, you were too busy in 1991 to pay attention to grunge!”

“We’ll come back later,” Bucky said with absolutely no emotion, then turned towards the door.

Goddammit!

 

           _Stark’s corner man shoved in his mouth guard as the inevitable bell rang and boom...just like that... Iron Man stalked towards_

_the center of the ring, re-directing all the power in his suit to throw the first devastating punch directly at The Winter Soldier’s exposed gut._

 

Guess who had the honor of wearing the striped referee shirt?

Steve stepped towards Tony and tried a completely different tactic. “Tony, I’m asking you as a friend.”

“Because we’re such good buddies now right?” Tony snapped. “Wanna go get a pedicure? Maybe get naked for a homoerotic group massage then throw back a few cold ones? FRIDAY, do we have a Groupon for that?”

“I’ll meet you back at the apartment, Steve.” Bucky pushed off the doorframe and he and Grumpy Cat backed into the hallway.

Hissing a breath through his nose, Steve stared right into Tony Stark’s egotistical brown eyes, because enough was enough! Tony annoyingly stared right back with a curled upper lip, and Steve wanted to pin him under his knee and shave every single sculpted hair off of his irritating face! But he didn’t. Even though it might take a minute, Steve knew that he’d win this staring contest; he won _every_ staring contest! He might not be Captain America anymore but that didn’t mean that he'd lost his signature righteous stare; that was something that he'd possessed  _long_ before the serum.

As predicted, Tony only lasted twelve seconds before he gave in with a huff. “Fine, fine. Whatever. General Grievous get back in here! Steve’s gonna sing kumbaya while I fix this thing. C’mon, I don’t have all fucking day. I have it in my schedule to do _absolutely nothing_ for the next four hours and you’re gonna make me late.” He tapped an imaginary watch and Steve reconsidered pulling out the razor.

Bucky might be wearing a new pair of navy blue slip-on Vans, his dark jeans might have a relaxed fit and a big hole in one knee, and he might have a furry internet sensation sprawled across his muscled chest, but whenever he got this close to Tony Stark no amount of casual could cover the coiled tension that ran through his entire body. As Bucky lowered himself into the chair, Steve could see the air between them vibrating and the hairs on Bucky’s arms standing up on end.

Steve was so over this... _all_ of it. The fact that he and Bucky were living at the compound in the first place was something that he still didn’t feel solid about, so Tony wielding words like weapons, and constantly reminding Bucky of all the things that he was trying to forget, made it unbearable. They’d been doing okay in Wakanda, good even. T’Challa’s team was extraordinary at working the problem and getting Bucky’s brain back on track; at least in the sense that a string of words couldn’t undo all he’d rebuilt in a matter of syllables. But neither of them had been ready to come back to this.

In Africa they'd just been beginning to rediscover things like sitting on rooftops and watching the sun drifting towards the horizon through ribbons of purple, pink, orange and blue; although the jungle canopy had created distinctly different organic silhouettes than the growing geometry of New York City in 1934...

 

 

As soon as Bucky had finally started feeling comfortable enough to venture out of his room in Wakanda, Steve had gone on a mission. During the six long months when Bucky had stood frozen in that tube, Steve could only stare while they’d both waited in their own ways for solutions. Sam had eventually put a time limit on his ‘sad staring visits’, laying down the law and allowing Steve a maximum of 'one hour of self-inflicted trauma per day' because it was apparently 'painful to watch and not good for his mental wellbeing'. Steve had obviously done a horrible job abiding by that rule, sneaking in at night to sketch the same portrait over and over and bribing the scientists with cookies to let him stay an extra hour. Sam had eventually changed his access code and had put an end to it, but not before Steve had filled an entire sketchbook. The only reason Steve hadn't broken down the doors was out of respect for T’Challa. The man had done so much for them and Steve wouldn’t have been a very grateful houseguest if he'd started bashing in doors to get to his frozen soulmate. Sam’s full stop had forced Steve to find other things to fill his time, and one of his favorites happened to be hiding from everyone on the roof of the main house. It was quiet. It was secret. It was _his_ and he’d hoped soon it would become _theirs_.

In December when Steve had finally gotten him back, and Bucky had started _letting_ himself be back, priority number one had become getting him up on that roof. It had taken weeks of convincing and gentle coaxing to get him there, because Bucky still hadn’t trusted himself. But watching him smiling at the doctors, expressing his genuine gratitude to T’Challa, and hand feeding the injured African Grey Parrot that T’Challa’s sister, Shuri, had been nursing back to health...well, that had given Steve enough trust for the both of them. At first they'd watched the sun dropping beyond the horizon with Bucky’s knees folded tightly against his chest. He'd braced himself with his only arm to keep his balance, and even though every part of Steve had wanted to squish right next to Bucky and hug him for hours on end, Steve had made sure to sit at a respectable distance.

When Steve commented on the sounds of the oversized leaves rustling in the humid breeze, what he really wanted to say was, 'your voice is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard'. When Steve spoke about the mysterious creatures with intricate patterns and pelts, crawling and climbing and flying all around them, what he really wanted to say was, 'I’ve loved your skin since I was thirteen...can I touch you?' But the distance between them remained respectable even when conversations grew more bold. Steve tried not to hope too much as Bucky’s knees, with the passage of time, lowered into a casual criss-cross balanced by two arms.

_I don’t know how ya sit like that when you draw Steve. You’re all folded up like a salty pretzel. Everytime I look at ya, I hear my_

 _second_ _grade_ _teacher,_ _that_ _mean Mrs. Slack, yellin’ at all the kids to sit ‘criss-cross applesauce’ during story time. I mean, really, Steve,_

 _doesn’t it hurt your_ _scrawny butt?_

The more nights that passed and the more sunsets they absorbed, the more that Bucky started to smile, laugh, and joke. And every single night that Steve watched him sink into that elementary pose, he wondered if Bucky remembered poking Steve’s scrawny butt with his toes as he’d drawn the view of the buildings out of their cracked window…

It was March when Sam and Wanda got creative in the kitchen and baked Bucky a surprise birthday cake. After the balloons and streamers, explosions of neon green silly string, and a horrible rendition of Happy Birthday on ukulele courtesy of Clint, they snatched another big slice and snuck up to the roof. Wanda had told Steve that the sweet red filling, layered between the airy vanilla cake, was made from the local Noem-Noem berry. While he had no clue what a Noem-Noem berry was, it certainly tasted amazing.

Steve balanced the plate with one hand and patted the pocket of his shorts, making sure for the hundredth time that the two special red and white striped candles, that T’Challa had managed to dig up, were still there. He was so damn nervous but he tried to hide it with a big smile as he walked towards Bucky across the rooftop. He was gonna tell him...he was gonna stop being stupid and tell him...even though his heart was beating a thousand miles per hour.

Bucky was wearing loose white cotton pants with a soft blue v-neck t-shirt that let his newly growing chest hairs peek out at the top. It seemed like everything that he'd been putting on his body since he came out of cryo was cozy and free, which was another thing that made Steve smile like a dork every time Bucky was close. Steve felt so self-conscious as he plunked down, folding his legs to match Bucky’s criss-cross, before sliding the plate between them. There were still times when Steve felt like his legs were too long, that his line of sight was too high, and that his true self was hidden under layers of unnatural muscle and flesh; but this was the first time in years that he felt like he did when he'd first stumbled out of Dr. Erskine’s tube. Right now, sitting with his too-long-legs in front of Bucky, he wanted to shrink back to a size where things were clearly defined.

He wouldn’t be surprised if his cheeks were as red as the Noo-Noo berries right now. Noob-Noob? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. He was freaking out. He ventured a peek at Bucky, who was quirking up the corner of his mouth and had one eyebrow raised. Bucky looked amused and Steve felt like a wobbly colt who didn’t understand his own feet! Shit, he was gonna hyperventilate!

Steve slid back two more inches, making sure to keep a respectable distance between them, even though he wanted to leap forward and bury his face in those tiny peeking hairs! He was gonna tell him! He was gonna stop blushing like an idiot and tell him! Digging around in his pocket, Steve pulled out the candles and his zippo, dramatically rolling each wax cylinder across his knuckles before sticking them into the creamy white frosting.

“Makin’ a pretty big show of those candles there, Steve. We already blew out one-hundred downstairs and I know damn well that Clint counted them exactly, because he’s an asshole like that. Don’t you think that blaze covered all the birthday bases?” Bucky grinned and the orange and pink sky creating a frame behind him. He was stunning...and Steve couldn't breathe.

Steve still kept a respectable distance as he flicked the lighter with one hand, but his thoughts went elsewhere; to a place where he could spend hours marveling at the way the African air bent Bucky’s chocolate hair into loose chaotic waves. Steve adored the mess it made when Bucky piled it high on top of his head, and the warm colors, signaling the end of another treasured day, created a silhouette where his wild strands looked as dense and mysterious as the branches reaching up from the Wakandan canopy. Steve just wanted to run his fingers through it...and the tantalizing way a tiny stripe of Bucky’s tan skin was peeking out from underneath his t-shirt made Steve just want to…

“Ow!” Steve dropped the zippo, because he’d been staring like an idiot and had totally forgotten that he was supposed to be lighting candles, not temporarily burning off his fingerprints.

“You okay over there, buddy?” Bucky chuckled, tipping his head to give Steve a crooked little smile. God, Steve loved that smile, and how, like Bucky’s criss-cross knees, it was becoming more and more open with each passing day.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just an idiot, that’s all.” He flicked the zippo again and resolutely did not look at Bucky as he was lighting the wicks.

“I remember you lighting a big wad of newspaper tied to the end of a stick when I turned what...fourteen? Fifteen? No cake, no present, not even a fuckin’ candle.” Bucky snickered, as Steve marinated in the ever present joy he felt hearing something else come back to him.

Letting his palm hover above the flames, Steve thought back to that magical day and tried to help fill in the memory. “You were fourteen and your mom yelled at us because we smoked up the entire apartment. She had to open all the windows and it was freezing outside because there was a late blizzard. Thick wet snowflakes blew in and piled up on the windowsills. We decided it would be a great idea to make snowballs, which got us into even bigger trouble.”

“And she didn’t even let you finish attempting to sing Happy Birthday,” Bucky laughed.

“Yeah, lucky for you.” Smiling from his place across the respectable distance, Steve pulled his hand back from the fire and said, “That was a good birthday.”

“Yeah, I remember feeling happy.”

Happy. God, Steve wanted nothing more for Bucky than that one simple word. Lifting the plate into the air, Steve gazed across layers of red and white cake, through two flickering candles, at Bucky’s beautiful smiling face. Maybe Steve hoped the candlelight would magically provide a blast of courage so he could keep the promise he’d made to himself: stop being a chickenshit and tell him. Simple right? He just had to open his mouth and spit out the resolution he’d made two weeks ago, when Bucky had been swimming in the turquoise pool beneath the waterfall.

It had been pathetic really... Steve hadn't been able to stop himself from staring at the powerful muscles rippling under Bucky’s bronze skin as he'd leapt off the edges of the rocks. It had even gotten to the point where Clint had waited until Bucky was underwater, and had yelled, “Hey, Steve, need me to wipe that drool off your chin?” He'd been about to tell Clint to fuck off, when Bucky had resurfaced and had dramatically flipped his wet hair backwards in a motion that had instantly made Steve’s swim trunks highly inappropriate. Clint had pointed and snorted, while Steve had hid behind a tree like a humiliated twelve-year-old with his first accidental boner. Nothing about it had been simple... there was nothing simple about any of this...but he still _had_ to tell him!

There was only one problem. Bucky hadn’t brought up _any_ of those memories. In the four months since T’Challa’s team had pulled him out of cryo, Bucky hadn’t mentioned _one_. There were no memories of sixteen-year-old boys swinging their mismatched legs a little too close as they had watched the neighborhood kids playing stickball from the rusty fire escape, no memories of stealing a half empty bottle of bourbon off Mr. Newman’s porch when he’d passed out drunk in his rocking chair, no memories of giggling as they’d poured the forbidden liquor down their throats until they were drunk enough to look at each other in new and forbidden ways, and no memories of the first time that Bucky had gotten brave enough to slide his hand a little bit too low when they'd hugged.

Keeping the painfully respectable distance over two flames, Steve prayed that Bucky would say _something_. He _had_ to remember. He was remembering everything else! Maybe he didn’t want Steve anymore? Jesus christ, he was acting like a nervous school girl with little blonde pigtails tied up with pretty pink bows chasing after her first crush, and it was fucking ridiculous! He was being ridiculous! He just needed to open his god damn mouth and tell him!

As the fire danced and flickered in the reflection of Bucky blue eyes, Steve made his own wish. The truth was, he wanted Bucky to remember on his own. He’d fallen asleep every damn night since DC wishing for it, dreaming of it, and praying to his childhood God for a miracle. Telling Bucky who they'd been to one another wouldn’t be the same as the memory pouring unsolicited from his curved lips, and Steve craved it...he _needed_ it. Closing his eyes, he allowed the stolen birthday wish to take shape in his mind: After the sun had disappeared below the undulating horizon, Bucky would glance across the respectable distance and recount Steve’s favorite memory from 1934. He’d chuckle and say, ‘Remember the time Robbie O’Connor punched you right in the nose ‘cause you hollered at him for buggin’ Susie McGraw? I had to drag you kicking and screamin’ behind those smelly garbage cans in the alley next to St. Michael’s. I heroically ripped my new white tank top right off my back to stop the river of blood pourin’ out of your stupid nose. I remember it like it was yesterday. I said, god you’re such a punk, jesus christ, Stevie.’

The candles were starting to melt and Bucky was looking at him funny, but Steve couldn’t stop himself...he could feel the motion of the decade’s old Brooklyn memory running away from him as every detail flooded his muscle memory: the exact angle of his chin when he’d tipped his head to look up at Bucky, the feeling of the warm blood when it had started started running down the back of his throat, and how the sturdy bones in Bucky’s wrist had felt under his fingers when Steve had pushed the ruined shirt away from his nose. Robbie O’Connor must have knocked him a little silly, because on that back alley afternoon he’d looked Bucky right in the eye and had said, 'Stevie? Since when am I _Stevie_ , jerk?'

Steve would never forget, not in one-hundred years, not in one-hundred-and-one...never...the certainty in Bucky’s expression as he’d wrapped his right hand and the wet shirt behind Steve’s neck. Steve would never lose the memory of how delicious Bucky's summertime skin had smelled when he’d leaned in close to whisper, 'You’ve _always_ been my Stevie.'

Nothing could ever steal the exhilaration of that first kiss Bucky had pressed slowly and softly against Steve’s bloody lips; the perfect combination of copper, sweat, heat, and love was permanently infused into his very being.

So, it shouldn’t be surprising that all these years later, with bats streaking across the twilight sky on a monumental African night, that Steve could still taste the memory of the sixteen-year-old boys they used to be. Over two candles burning to celebrate an impossible one-hundredth birthday, Steve wished with all his heart that Bucky wanted to remember it too.

He tossed the zippo aside and lifted the plate higher in front of Bucky’s face. “Blow them out Buck.”

There was something in Bucky’s eyes in the candlelight. Steve saw it, even though he wasn’t sure he was supposed to. It looked like gears were spinning and clicking towards a decision and Steve desperately wanted to know the question. But it disappeared the instant Bucky sucked in an overdramatic breath and blew with much more gusto than necessary. The flames went out out...for a split second...before bursting back to life.

“What the hell?” Bucky laughed.

“Gettin’ wimpy in your old age?” Steve shook the plate a little, making trails of light in front of their eyes. “C’mon, slugger, give it another go.”

Bucky blew even harder, expanding his lungs to full capacity before sending hurricane force winds at the flames, and Steve started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh because they came right back. God, laughing felt so good and he felt the joy of it way down in his belly…

“Oh, aren’t you cute, Steve.” Bucky playfully shoved his shoulder and almost made him drop the cake.

“They’re like us, Buck. No matter how hard you blow we just keep coming back.”

Bucky stopped at that. He stopped shoving, he stopped laughing, and his eyes shifted to the left. There was a moment of contemplation as the candles burnt even lower and Steve stopped breathing. Finally, Bucky lightly blew across them, making the flames bend south before he whispered, “Are you glad I came back?”

What? What!? Steve wanted to scream, 'you can’t be serious! What the hell are you talking about!? I’ve been drowning every single waking moment since I lost you on that goddamn train! I can’t live without you!' But what he said instead was...

“Yeah, Buck.”

Steve was going to cry. He was gonna cry like a big sad baby in his sad ‘I love you’ cake.

“Hey…” Bucky slowly stretched out his right hand and ran it behind Steve’s neck, destroying the respectable distance and saturating Steve with instant relief. “Hey, look at me.”

The candles were still burning, releasing faint trails of black smoke into the path of the screeching bats as they melted down to nothing. Wax was dripping all over the pristine white frosting, dribbling red down the sides of the layered cake and pooling around edges. Bucky’s hand felt so strong on his neck, even though Steve felt the polar opposite. He set the ruined cake next to his thigh to venture a look at Bucky’s face, and what he saw was layers peeling back.

“Listen, Steve,” Bucky sighed, inches from his face. “I don’t know if I’m good for you.”

“What?” he exclaimed as the pigtails retreated. “Jesus, Bucky, of course you’re good for me! You’re everything to me!” God, Bucky was so close and he wasn’t making any sense!

Five fingers gripped tighter and Steve felt a loose tendril of hair falling against his cheek when Bucky shook his head; the person Steve loved most in the world touching him with chocolate brown waves grown when they were decades apart. Tears started sliding down Steve’s cheeks because the last time he’d touched Bucky’s short hair had been the night before the train.

Their eyes locked and Bucky’s pain was wide open. “Look at everything that’s happened since DC, since Bucharest, since Siberia! Look at all the good people who are stuck hiding here because of me! Look at what everyone has given up!”

“I think that the good people stuck hiding in this _jungle paradise_ would be more apt to call this a vacation, Buck. Take a look around! I don’t see much to complain about. And nothing I gave up, _nothing_ , meant anything compared to what you mean to me! In fact, none of it meant _anything_!”

Bucky stopped at that and turned his gaze toward the dark sky. A satellite was racing across static stars, following a predetermined path towards the horizon, and Steve wondered how long it would take to come full circle. He was so close...so close that Steve could almost taste him...but he didn’t know if Bucky was still too far away to touch.

“You know, I saw you staring at the waterfall,” Bucky started. “You’re getting worse at hiding it...not that you’ve ever been particularly good at hiding anything. That’s why you’d make a terrible spy.”

Steve felt the red creeping into his cheeks.

“Clint says that you have gooey heart eyes all the time,” Bucky continued, the hint of a smile creeping onto his stubbled face.

He didn’t know what to say.

“You know...” Bucky’s thumb subtly slid upwards, rubbing the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck as his blue eyes followed the tiny light across the sky. “I have gooey heart eyes too.”

He couldn’t look at Bucky’s face. He couldn’t let himself believe that stolen birthday wishes were granted instantaneously by the magic of melting wax. Another tear rolled over his cheek as Steve ventured, “You do?”

“Of course I do, punk. What do you think broke the conditioning on the bridge?” Bucky smiled fully as the satellite neared the horizon, the corners of his eyes crinkling in new patterns. “It was the power of your gooey heart eyes staring out at me from your adorably shellshocked face.”

Sensing that Bucky had dropped his eyes, Steve matched the motion, and the instant their vision intersected it became clear that Bucky’s joking wasn’t lighthearted.

Just like the day Robbie O’Connor had knocked him silly in front of St. Michael’s church, Steve just said it. He closed the gap, allowing their foreheads to touch, and whispered, “Buck, I can’t keep pretending that I’m not in love with you.”

There are moments in life when you take a risk, when you dive in headfirst, when you open yourself up completely and pray for the best. Steve couldn’t even begin to count the times he’d jumped without a parachute, but the outcome of the fights against Brooklyn bullies, Nazis, Hydra, aliens, robots, and even a man made of iron that he used to call his friend, meant absolutely _nothing_ compared to the importance of this single moment in time. Watching Bucky pulling in deep breaths as his eyelashes tried desperately to keep the moisture inside, Steve didn’t know if he was about to land in the warm water of Bucky’s arms or smash into the sharp ice of the arctic.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve watched the trajectory of the satellite carry it beyond the horizon and he wondered if it would always stay on course.

“I’m different now, Steve.”

Steve blinked, because _of course_ Bucky was different! _Everything_ was different! What the hell was he talking about? Steve allowed his hand to find Bucky’s criss-cross knee as he frantically exclaimed, “I don’t care, Bucky. I don’t care about any of it! You’re here and that’s the only thing that matters! I just want to be able to touch you. I just want us to be _us_ again!”

The movement of Bucky’s thumb slowed as his calloused hand slid around to cup Steve’s cheek. It was soft and beautiful, honey, syrup, and everything warm when Bucky finally whispered, “God, Stevie, will you ever stop being reckless?”

Warm water exploded all around him as he landed in the metallic adrenaline of Bucky’s ocean. _Stevie_. Jesus, it was everything that Steve had been hoping for since he'd dared to hope again. It felt like he was asking to breathe again when he whispered, “Stevie? Since when am I _Stevie_ , jerk?”

Layers upon layers, years upon years, decisions good and bad, and the cyclical nature of life collided in that moment as two candles fizzled in the frosting and puddles of red wax. Two symbols burning out as their meaning roared back to life.

Bucky leaned forward then, his birthday cake lips hovering inches away, and gave Steve his life back. 

“You’ve _always_ been my Stevie,” Bucky breathed, before showing Steve that he remembered everything by the way his lips perfectly mimicked the memory...

 

 

So, when only thirteen perfect African sunsets later, Tony had used that goddamn burner phone to make the call, Steve had felt angry that he’d mailed it in the first place; pissed that his never-ending sense of duty had made him compose that 'non-apology' apology letter and reach out the proverbial olive branch, sans pens. He wished, for once, he could’ve just shut that part of him up and had simply allowed himself to play a long game of chess with Clint while Sam had introduced Bucky to his Candy Crush addiction. Why couldn’t he have let himself stay in a place where the most important thing had been Bucky sneaking into Steve’s room and asking to sleep next to him for the first time since they’d huddled together in a tiny tent pitched on the side of a freezing mountain in 1944? Everything would be so much better if Steve had ignored Tony’s call and had let them exist in the moment when Bucky had scooched next to Steve on their private balcony, clinked their cold beers together, and had said, “You know I love you too, right?”

Steve should’ve held tightly to sunset eleven, when he’d pushed three red cotton cords into Bucky’s waiting hand, and had murmured, “Hold the ends, jerk.” The beauty of sunset eleven had cast a warm glow across the strings, as Steve had braided two new red bracelets to tie tightly around two old wrists.

But the call had come. And it hadn't been just Tony, it had been the world...again. Tony hadn't been asking for Steve’s help, he'd asked for everyone’s help. _Ross_ had asked for everyone’s help, every world leader had been asking for everyone’s help, and in exchange Steve would be able to give everyone their lives back. The lives that his love for Bucky had taken away. It hadn't been a hard decision, because even though Wakanda was paradise they'd still been hiding from the world. Scott had needed to see Cassie, Sam had needed to see his family, Wanda had been drifting further into herself, Nat had been going crazy, Clint...well, Clint had been having a great time...but for the rest of them, the choice hadn't been hard; it was just one that he'd wished he hadn't had to make. When Tony had asked if Bucky could fight, if he would help, maybe Steve had thought it had been the right move for all of them? Maybe he’d hoped that Tony was ready to move forward? Maybe Steve had thought that he could give Bucky a life back too? A life with a new purpose...

He’d been dead wrong.

 

 

Now, standing in the middle of Tony’s workshop...far from birds, water, cake, and beer...Steve could feel his pulse pounding in his temples as regret filled his stomach. Watching the shitstorm unfolding in front of him, Steve couldn’t deny it anymore; he’d thrown Bucky right back into the middle of another war.

The brutal sound of a tool slamming against the table, knocking bolts and screws onto the concrete floor, ripped Steve from memories made half a world away and forced him to return to a fucked up world where Tony Stark was yelling at Bucky. Steve shook his head to clear out the last of the condensation and focused on how tightly Bucky’s right hand was gripping the armrest of the chair. The veins were bulging over the muscles in his forearm and Steve could hear it creaking; any harder and he’d snap it right off.

Tony shoved his magnifying goggles on top of his head and pulled apart the plates with his fingernails. “You know, I don’t understand how someone with your annoyingly advanced skillset can keep fucking up my arm.”

“You mean _my_ arm.” Bucky was staring straight at the wall ahead of him; not looking at Tony, not looking at Steve, not looking at anything but dark blue paint on a plain wall. Steve wondered if he was even looking at that.

“I fucking built it, I fucking paid for it, I fucking spent eighteen hours on a video conference telling T'Challa's team what to do when they put it on you...all under extreme duress, I might add...and now I have to fix it every goddamn week because you keep fucking it up with lube or Super Soldier semen, Macaroni and Cheese...seriously, is this fucking Macaroni and Cheese!?...or the blood of the innocents. Whatever your scrambled hindbrain is ordering you to shove _my_  fist into today.”

“You know what, Tony...” Steve stood up from the couch where he’d been biting his nails and watching the unbearable tension spiraling out of control. It was bad enough that Steve and Tony were still walking on eggshells every time they talked, but at least Stark maintained a base level of civility when dealing with Steve. With Bucky it was _always_ a clusterfuck and Steve was done with it. _Done_. Stomping forward he pointed at Bucky’s hand. “You need to shut the hell up and fix  _his_ arm. Stop pushing buttons just to watch them light up!”

Tony snatched a screwdriver off the table, jamming it into the open panel on Bucky’s forearm, and smirked up at Steve. “What, like this button?”

There was an audible crackle as Bucky yelped, jolting out of the chair.

“Fuck!” Bucky shouted as he rubbed the space where metal roughly connected to flesh and bone, “Are you kidding me?! Are you fucking ki...”

Bucky made himself swallow it, cutting off his own words. His entire aura was expanding with rage but Steve saw him stop himself... biting down on the words that he wanted to scream but never would...because it was _Tony_.

“Did you just shock him!?” Steve screeched the words that Bucky wouldn’t, because how dare he? How fucking dare he!? “What the hell’s wrong with you!?”

Tony kicked his chair backwards through the shards of glass and stepped towards Bucky. “Well, let’s see. For starters, _him_ even being here. _Him_ in general. I hate _him_. Let me be crystal clear about that little tidbit. What else is wrong with me? How about my lack of general guidance through my pivotal young adulthood? Whose fault was that? Hmmm, oh right…” Tony flipped the screwdriver before pointing it right in the middle of Bucky’s sternum. “ _His!_ And don’t even get me started on…”

“Enough!” Steve snatched the tool out of Tony’s hand and redirected the end. “The hand panels keep getting stuck. Fix the hand panels! We don’t need to rehash this every damn time!"

Watching Tony pick up the bottle while Bucky tried hard to conceal a sneer proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Steve had been completely out of his fucking mind when he'd brought Bucky back into this nightmare. What’s the saying? 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it?' Pretty ironic that Steve was the one with all the memories, and yet he _still_ kept making the same fucking mistakes.

Tipping back the liquor dramatically, Tony sucked down a giant swig before zeroing in on Bucky. “Oh, look, asshole, we got Captain Underpants’ pink panties all in a twist. Sorry about that...not sorry...whatever, sit your ass back in the chair so I can finish digging Steve’s short and curlies out of the joints.” Tony bent over and patted the leather seat. “I mean, that _is_ what you do best right, killer? Sit in the chair?”

Bucky blinked four times, owl slow and breath imperceptible, before he made his move. Steve saw it coming but couldn't do anything to stop him. The long metal pipe that Bucky snatched off the work table had already impaled the chair and had hit home in the concrete floor, before Steve managed to get in front of him to push him backwards.

“Fuck you!” Bucky screamed, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was directing it at Stark or saying it to the chair...oh, who was he kidding?...Bucky would _never_ say it to Stark, even though he should.

“Bucky, go!” Steve pushed him square in the chest and remembered how the tiny chest hairs had peeked out of Bucky's blue v-neck t-shirt as the velvet leaves had rubbed together in the breeze.

“That’s right, Cap...oh wait, you aren’t Cap anymore are you? That’s right, _Rogers_ , take your lapdog and get the hell out of my workshop before he shits on my rug!”

Bucky charged forward again, and Steve had to hit him with a low shoulder to hold back his force. As his shoes slid backwards with the weight of him, Steve remembered how his fingers had carefully dropped a tiny piece of layer cake onto Bucky’s sugary tongue.

“Tony, shut up!” Steve yelled, somehow managing to reverse the momentum and push Bucky two feet backwards. When he placed his palm on Bucky’s chest to hold him there, Steve shivered from the cold. He’d gone quiet, and it was only in his silence that Steve ever felt fear. “Bucky, stop! Stop, baby. Please.”

He sucked it back in then, creating a singularity in the center of his stomach. Steve watched him do it and _hated_ that he had to be the referee standing in between Bucky and Tony with outstretched arms. Steve wanted nothing more than to rip the black and white stripes into tiny shreds and to cheer wildly from Bucky’s corner...

_That’s it, baby! Duck and weave, don’t let him hit you with another word! You’ve got it! Punch him square in the jaw and make_

_him shut that awful_ _mouth! Do it, baby! Do it!_

 

But he couldn’t. Coming back here and throwing the two of them into this inescapable ring, Steve had inadvertently designated himself as peacekeeper. He fucking hated it.

His hand was still pressing the center of Bucky’s chest, and Steve could feel the influx of cold air racing across his arm as Bucky let go of the tension in his jaw. The pressure against his palm subsided as Bucky’s gravity forced the immense power of his muscles to release, clicking his own heavy locks into place as he slowed his breathing. The current hissed as the dead bolt snapped, and the hairs on Steve’s arms fell back into place. He counted the slow blinks of Bucky’s eyelids and by number four Steve knew that it was done. Bucky stood before him, his own hands obediently strapping a new mask over his nose and mouth, and Steve knew that he was the one who'd pulled the final buckle tight. Tony was still yelling and slamming things around, but Steve could only stand there helplessly as Bucky started backing up towards the door.

“You too, Steve, get the hell out! Go bake cookies with a mass murderer while I deal with General Ross and the fallout from your _continued_ refusal to sign the fucking Accords. No biggie. Think of my mom while you’re frosting the gingerbread men with happy smiles, okay?’

Bucky swallowed hard, and Steve was fucking thrilled when he used his metal hand to give Tony the finger. At least Bucky allowed himself that.

“Oh, I see _that_ finger’s working just fine. Happy to see that. Why don’t you go shove it right up your ass!”

After Bucky had disappeared around the corner, Steve turned to face Tony and asked him the same question that he’d been asking himself since he'd stupidly stepped onto that jet in Wakanda. “Why?”

“You’re paying for this chair by the way. I’m taking it out of your lunch money.” Tony was still breathing fast and stomping around with fake bravado, but Steve saw right through it.

“Why!?”

Tony didn’t answer. He just slapped the metal pole sticking diagonally out of the chair and fell heavily onto his stool, turning to stare out the plate glass windows at everything green and good... at the carefully maintained mirage. Steve watched Tony’s shoulders hunch forward and wondered how the hell they'd gotten here? How had Steve brought them to a place where their eyes stared down at feet and dirt, instead of up towards satellites racing across the sky? Steve let his eyes follow Tony’s out the window and tried to imagine that the oaks and maples were the emergent Utile and Mahogany of Wakanda. He wished that his mind could somehow stretch their squat trunks higher and higher, transforming them into the towering beauty of trees reaching for the canopy. Under those trees, Steve could remember the gentle noises that Bucky’s bare feet had created when they’d strolled hand in hand through tall grass...

Steve had made a mistake coming back to this. But, like it says in the History books and in neatly stenciled letters on the walls of museums all across the great and powerful United States of America, 'Captain Steve Rogers: A symbol of the nation and a hero to the world, whose story symbolizes honor, bravery, and sacrifice'. Tony dropped his head into his hands, and Steve almost laughed at the image of Scholars and Historians reverently composing succinct paragraphs about how Captain America always does the right thing for his country...

The books and walls never say anything about doing the right thing for James Buchanan Barnes.

*****

 

 

Steve always gave him time before he went back to their apartment. There were new things to learn about Bucky, because as much as Steve wanted things to be something of the way they used to be, they were far from it. One of these things was that Bucky needed space and time to take out his rage in ways that Steve pretended not to see, then more time to fold his knees tightly against his chest and stare out their bedroom window towards his own someplace else. It was best if Steve waited to return until Bucky was back to criss-cross and he’d put the sharp knives back in their sheaths. Maybe Steve needed the time too, to get his own shit under control before he tried to help Bucky with his? God, they were a mess.

You’d think living in a billion dollar complex with state of the art everything: rows full of candy colored sportscars with country roads perfect for driving way too fast, Steve’s motorcycle stored in a perfectly designed climate controlled garage, begging to be ridden, an oversized lap pool filled with water that was always the perfect temperature, and perfectly manicured gardens filled with pink peonies, purple dahlias, and spotted tiger lilies... you’d think that Steve would spend times like these sticking his nose deep inside crimson roses, or floating on his back in cool water to ease the unbearable stress. But he didn’t. Steve always ended up in the narrow back alley behind the service entrances. The metallic grey walls weren’t made of crumbling brick, but the narrow space felt the same. It was a place where the dumpsters overflowed with random discarded junk; the stinky leftovers of reality safely hidden from posh eyes and sensitive noses. Steve liked it there. It was where he belonged after all...where he and Bucky had always been most at home. Where garbage was garbage, dirt was dirt, blood was blood, and secret kisses existed in a world void of pretense, costumes, and lies...however well-meaning.

Before Steve pushed through the exit in the kitchen store room, he always grabbed the round tin he'd stashed under a broken piece of drywall, behind the biggest steel support beam. The tin barely fit in the space, and he had to maneuver his hand just right to grab hold and slide it out. He tapped the metal lid seven times as he shoved through the door (like he always did), then moved along the light grey wall in the overly bright summer sun (like he always did), before turning into the alcove behind the biggest dumpster (like he always did). He slid down the wall and tried to make himself small, before yanking his amber aviators off the collar of his grey polo. Shoving them on, he tried not to think about the mask, or what Bucky was doing to rip it off again...focusing instead on the way that the tin bounced sunlight onto the grey walls, creating brilliant circles on things cast out.

The lid creaked as Steve dug his fingers at the seam then let it topple to the concrete by his knees; the sound echoing down the alley. The red licorice ropes that appeared instantly transported him back in time...to the overflowing aisles of the Midnight Rose Candy Store...

 

Sixteen-year-old Bucky was quite the charmer, with his spunky smile and perfectly parted hair, which meant that he was always the one to sweet-talk old Mrs. Rosie Gold into throwing in a few extra Red Vines. He’d lean towards her with a cocky wink as he tossed a coin or two on the counter, and soon after, Mrs. Rosie Gold would have Bucky lifting heavy boxes onto the highest shelves to make up the difference. And if Steve caught her staring at his ass?...Well, he really couldn’t blame her. The gangsters that hung out by the row of payphones along the back wall nodded at Bucky every single time they walked past, but Steve was always too excited about the candy to give it much thought. They never tipped their fedoras in Steve’s direction, but looking back at it now, there was always something in the way that they looked at Bucky...

 

Steve kicked out his long leg and launched a bright red Coke can, that had escaped from the dumpster, into the air. He despised the sound of the aluminum clanging and banging across his metal alley, but it still had felt good to fucking kick it. Coke. What the hell was wrong with Coca-Cola? Somewhere along the line, two additional syllables became too much for society to handle? The dented can slid to a stop between a blue milk crate and the wall, and it made Steve miss the sight of a glass bottle slipping between Bucky’s teenage lips. Fighting with Stark was so damn hard on Bucky, but Steve was at least somewhat self-aware, and understood that it was almost as hard on him. Why else would he be hiding behind a dumpster, musing about the horrific modernization of Coca-Cola?

So, what do you do when you’re a complete mess? Well, you grab a single Red Vine from your top secret tin of nostalgia and start your ritual. Steve laughed at himself as he precisely divided the strand along its ridges, deconstructing the rope in vertical stripes to make something smaller.

 

The gangsters always smelled like cigars, and Steve would hustle past them so he didn’t trigger his stupid asthma. But sometimes, Bucky fell behind on the way to the open door. Sometimes, he’d bend over to listen as the man with the bushy moustache whispered something in his ear. Sometimes, he’d linger long enough that Steve could smell the scent of cigars in Bucky’s hair long into the afternoon. If Steve didn’t have a bunch of Red Vines clutched in his hand as he ran along the counter towards the Brooklyn street, maybe he would have seen it...

 

But he hadn’t, because the joy of candy overrode everything dark and dangerous. Right? Well, he was certainly applying the same brilliant logic in good old 2017. Steve sniffed, then started carefully laying each thin red rope across the lid of his pathetic tin (like he always did) and very pointedly didn’t think about Bucky punching gaping holes through the drywall of their living room.

 

The truth of the matter was, Mrs. Rosie Gold never failed to stock the freshest Red Vines. They were always on display in giant glass jars at the edge of her long counter, ready to draw Steve in with their twisted magic. She’d put her hands on her wide hips and shake her head, as Steve took his time staring at the patterns created by the looping and curling red candy compressed tightly against the glass. But Bucky would always swoop in to save the day with a grin and a lip bite, buying Steve a few more minutes to find his way out of the mesmerizing maze. Even back then, Steve didn’t know why he liked the stuff so damn much. It wasn’t like they tasted better than Sugar Daddies, Boston Baked Beans or Beechies Peppermint Gum...and they certainly weren’t as eye catching as the rainbow jawbreakers or the rows of candy buttons...but every single time that Bucky asked Steve what he wanted, his eyes always flicked down the row of glass jars to land on red...

 

Steve took a deep breath, inhaling the faint smell of garbage as he looked down at the six thin ropes he’d created by pulling a single Red Vine apart. He let his hand drift up to his left wrist and lovingly touched the red cotton strings tied there. They’d been on the right track in Wakanda, and Steve was an asshole for taking Bucky out of there. He snatched up three strands so fast that the metal lid clattered against the concrete, and quickly shoved the ends between his lips (like he always did). It was a relief that the fascination that drew Steve into glass jars filled with mazes of red in 1934 still existed, although the ritual was perhaps just as twisted as the loops and curls of rubbery red. He tried not to think about it, focusing on the way his big hands started moving of their own volition in a pattern originated by much smaller bones.

 

The first time Steve’s hands moved in that pattern, Bucky had worked up a serious sweat lifting an entire shipment of 3 Musketeers onto the highest shelves, so that Mrs. Rosie Gold would reward him with five Red Vines. There wasn’t much room to hide in the storage room, so Steve squished himself into the corner and fiddled with Bucky’s discarded dress shirt, trying to pretend that he wasn’t gawking at Bucky’s lean muscles. But it was impossible to look away as his sculpted shoulders strained and flexed against his black suspenders every single time he climbed up and down the ladder. Maybe Steve squeaked, or let a little moan escape, because Mrs. Rosie Gold totally caught him looking and poked him in the ribs. But instead of calling him a dirty fag, she gave him a wink, and they spent the final two boxes gawking at Bucky’s body together. She must have figured that it was equally perverted for a sixty-year-old woman to be staring at a sixteen-year-old’s ass, and paying him for the peep show in penny candy. When she dug out seven ropes from her jar, instead of the agreed upon five, then passed them across the counter to Bucky’s waiting hand, she smiled at Steve before turning away with a snicker. Bucky always thought that she miscounted, but Steve knew it was a ‘bonus’. It was a secret that he shared with Mrs. Rosie Gold until Bucky went to boot camp.

As they headed towards the door with seven Red Vines, the stocky gangster with the perpetual five o’clock shadow stuck out a gnarled hand, and Bucky slapped one into his palm without question. Then, they gave a second one to Becca when they squeezed past her in the narrow hall. When Steve kicked open the bedroom door, Bucky shoved another two in his mouth, filling his cheeks like a chipmunk. It made Steve laugh (like it always did), and his joy echoed through the little apartment until Bucky shut the door behind them (like he always did). But then Bucky deviated from the norm, and Steve’s Red Vines transformed into something that was so much more.

Instead of flopping in his broken chair to crack another joke, or pulling out his collection of Dick Tracy and Flash Gordon comic strips from under the bed, Bucky abruptly turned and slid another rope out of Steve’s hand before crowding him against the thin wood door. When he pressed the end of the cherry candy against Steve’s lips, Bucky swallowed what was left in his cheeks in one big gulp.

“Open your mouth, Stevie,” Bucky whispered before he licked his lips. “Open your mouth and hold the end, but don’t bite it. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Steve felt like he was gonna pass out and fly to the moon in one fell swoop, as he parted his lips to let Bucky slide the end of the licorice between his teeth. The smile on Bucky’s face, before he ducked down to catch the other end between his slightly crooked teeth, was so damn _dirty_.

Bucky ate his way up Steve’s slight chest, using his sugary tongue to drag the candy against his sternum, before nibbling, kissing, and sucking a path up his neck. When Bucky stopped, only a single inch of rope remained between them, and Steve couldn’t breathe. It was all so new, and he had no idea what he was doing, and he didn’t even know that Bucky could _look_ like that…

 

A heavy door slammed open around the corner and shook Steve back to the present. He looked down at the licorice braid that had formed in his fingers; three rubbery red lines overlapping and twisting to create something new. He waited until the noises of someone pouring recyclables into the dumpster stopped, before looping his braid in a circle and pinching the ends together, melding them in a gooey seal.

He stared at the candy circle, then at the cotton one tied around his wrist, and tried not to cry. There had been a time during the war, when there hadn't been any licorice, that Steve had made do with red threads carefully pulled from a flowered dress that he’d found in an abandoned farmhouse in Poland. Once, he’d even used three red wires that he’d carefully removed from a bomb Dernier had diffused in Germany. Bucky had never let Steve live that one down, calling him 'the most reckless sap the world had ever known', but he’d happily worn it tucked under the sleeve of his blue coat until…

...until he fell.

Stiff wires, forced into the shape of something gooey and sacred, were forever etched into the folds of Steve’s mind like a brand. All these years later, he still found himself wondering how long Hydra had left it on Bucky’s wrist after they’d found him bleeding in the snow. Had they cut it off right away, or left it there as a constant reminder of the person who'd failed him? Steve sniffed and tried to focus on licorice.

Whenever the shit was truly hitting the fan, he’d always found himself wrapping and twisting red strands of something to fit around Bucky’s right wrist, then handing over a second one for Bucky to tie around Steve’s left. During the war, he’d happily braided the strings to fit bigger wrists than the first cords had encircled in the summer of 1934.

Steve didn’t do that any more.

Since the day that Bucky fell, until the day that Steve dove that plane into the fucking ice, he’d made the circles small. And since the day he'd come back to a world that he hadn't asked for, they remained the size they'd been in the beginning; the size they'd been that very first day when Bucky’s gaze had dripped with real desire for the very first time.

 

 

When Bucky paused on that hot summer afternoon, leaving a single inch of red between them, Steve held his breath. He was positive the anticipation was about to stop his stupid heart and do him in once and for all, when Bucky suddenly sucked the last inch out of Steve’s mouth and stepped backwards. He chewed it obnoxiously between his teeth, smacking and chomping as the bow of his lips stretched into a cocky smile.

“Gettin’ a little hot and bothered there, Stevie?” he practically purred, his eyes dropping to the front of Steve’s pants. “Maybe it’s not licorice you’ve been hungry for?”

When Bucky backed away, slowly sliding the suspenders off his shoulders, Steve’s mouth started watering. And when Bucky lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, making it perfectly clear by the angle of his hips that licorice wasn’t all he was hungry for either, Steve was overcome with the uncontrollable desire to taste him.

Staring at Bucky in a completely new way, Steve held the final two Red Vines in a fist that he didn’t even realize he was making. They’d gotten sticky in the heat and pressure, but he still couldn’t put them down. In that moment, Steve was too busy noticing every part of everything, like somehow, his horrible vision magically focused to twenty-twenty and zoomed in on every single molecule that made up James Buchanan Barnes. Steve could see each bead of sweat glistening on his shoulders in the afternoon sun. He could track each drop as it rolled across Bucky’s chest, dripping in slow motion into the hollow between his collarbones each time his chest rose with the rush of something taboo. Each individual strand of Bucky’s short hair became visible, and Steve was mesmerized by the way it stuck up in crazy directions from Bucky carelessly swiping his hands through it. But Steve’s eyes stopped their microscopic exploration when he realized the grease stain on Bucky’s thigh was pointing right at the bulge in his pants.

“Stevie…”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I think you should put the licorice down....”

 

Steve pushed his stupidly expensive sunglasses up on top of his head and wiped at his eyes. While he was lost in his brain, the sun had crept far enough into his hidden corner to infiltrate his safe space and light up his feet. He should probably go back to make sure Bucky knew how much Steve loved him, that Tony was a prick, that none of this shit was Bucky’s fault, how nothing was _ever_ Bucky’s fault... but instead, he scooched over so his legs were back in the shadows. Squeezing the ends of the second bracelet together, he set one on his left knee and the other on the right in the quickly disappearing shade. Steve stared at them there (like he always did) and inhaled seven deep breaths.

 

In the tiny, hot bedroom, Steve dropped the last two sticky Red Vines from his sugar stained hand, before moving into the space between Bucky’s knees. Neither of them said anything because they didn’t have to. It felt right to allow his own kneecaps to hit the mattress between Bucky’s spread thighs, and it felt exhilarating when Bucky licked his licorice lips, biting at the bottom before sticking his index fingers through the belt loops on the sides of Steve’s baggy khaki pants.

There was a pregnant pause as Bucky’s looped fingers tugged downward on Steve’s hand-me-down pin cushion belt. Bucky had outgrown it and punched at least five holes in the leather until he’d finally gotten it small enough to fit Steve’s tiny waist. But the desire to make the belt smaller reversed when Bucky tugged downward, and Steve wished that the buckle was two holes over so that his pants would slide right off. When they smiled at each other, Steve marveled at curving dark lashes and dark messy hair, at the hard line in Bucky’s pants and the lips stained red with candy.

Just like he had in the dirty alley next to St. Michael’s, Steve blurted out exactly what he was thinking. “I want you so bad that I can taste it.”

“Oh yeah? That’s mighty forward of you, Stevie,” Bucky murmured, using his hooked fingers to pull Steve towards him. “What is it that you want so bad?”

Catching himself with hands on slippery shoulders, Steve stuttered, “I don’t really know exactly…this is um...jesus, Buck...I don’t know how to…”

Bucky pushed up the bottom of Steve’s white t-shirt with his nose and pressed a single kiss to the skin above his bellybutton, and Steve forgot how to form words. 

“Well, I might have a few ideas, if you wanna try a few things that is?” Bucky moaned and tugged Steve forward so hard that one of the belt loops broke.

“Hey, you broke my pants,” Steve laughed.

Suddenly Steve was falling, as Bucky grabbed him around the waist to fling them backwards onto the bed. Their faces were close enough that Steve smelled the sugar clinging to Bucky’s tongue when he teased, “That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

He felt Bucky hard against his thigh, and every part of Steve started tingling and zinging, making him feel reckless and free. “I don’t give a shit about my pants! Break _all_ the belt loops, snap every single one, break the zipper, pop off the button so it rolls across the floor...break anything you want, Bucky.”

Steve closed the final space in a fraction of a second, slipping his tongue between Bucky’s wet lips and tasting something divine; something so much better than stolen bourbon, so much better than Red Hots, or Zagnuts, and so so much better than Steve’s favorite cherry Red Vines.

When Bucky led them down a winding road that neither of them had traveled before...a road of carefully removed cotton and the revelation of summertime skin, a road of tongues tracing new paths from pinky toes to earlobes, a road of two bodies discovering all the ways that they fit together...Steve knew that he was never turning back. He’d stay on this road to the end of the line, because even though he couldn’t see the horizon or where the road was leading, he knew for certain that it was the right direction. He watched the unbelievable expressions flowing across Bucky’s features as he pushed into Steve for the very first time and they learned how to move together, how to make each other feel good, and how to express their love. That was the exact moment that Steve knew Bucky’s face would always be his true north...

 

But now he was hiding in a modern reconstruction of an alley long gone and staring at the fraying cotton strings hanging around his wrist. Steve needed to make them new ones before the braided fibers broke completely and fell off, because the thought of them landing unseen on dirty carpet and getting lost under socks and smelly t-shirts made him feel anxious, or sad, or something. He didn’t really know. For some reason, he didn’t think he could handle them dropping off in the middle of another battle, disappearing into the chaos of a thousand spent rounds littering the uneven ground. Steve felt the urge to braid the strings tighter, to make the knots stronger, and to find a fiber that would never break, because he was fucking sick and tired of everything fraying and falling.

St. Michael’s had burnt down in 1984, and now there was a generic strip mall with a Baskin-Robbins, a Starbucks, and a Verizon standing in its majestic footprint. When he'd first come out of the ice, Steve had made the mistake of driving his motorcycle down the traffic-filled street through their old neighborhood. He’d ended up crying for over an hour into a strawberry-banana smoothie while he’d sat on a broken bench in the place where their alley used to be. But he hadn’t told Fury that. He hadn’t told Tony that. He hadn't told Natasha that. Nobody had fucking asked!

It was the same reason that he didn’t tell anybody about the empty bracelets sitting on his bent knees. Steve ground the back of his head against the metal wall as he snatched up the licorice loops with his hand. He wondered if Bucky was still punching brick walls with metal fists, or adding to the modern art of the pin-cushion wall in their bedroom; peppering it with new holes and craters from the impact of aggressively thrown knives? He wondered if Bucky was ready for Steve to come back, or if he should scooch three more inches to the right to avoid the modern sun a little longer?

 

Two young men lying together in the late afternoon sun, as it poured through a sheer beige curtain and illuminated their intertwined bodies...

 

Naked and in awe...to this day that’s how Steve would describe it...naked and in awe. He closed his eyes and shifted his head until he felt the rough edge of a rivet scratching against the back of his skull.

 

Two young men lying together in the late afternoon sun as Bucky casually twirled a few strands of Steve’s floppy blond hair around his fingers and Steve’s eyes focused on the final two Red Vines. He reached out and grabbed them off the rickety table, before scooching up and sitting criss-cross in the messed up sheets. A fantastic idea was brewing, and Bucky wasn’t gonna derail it with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, _now_ you wanna eat licorice. You wanna leap through the gates of Hell with the likes of me _and_ get your candy too. I'd better be careful, Stevie, you’re gonna end up spoiled.”

“I’m not gonna eat it,” Steve laughed as he began peeling the first one back to create six long strands.

Bucky rolled over and kissed Steve’s bare knee. “What’s the point of candy if you aren’t gonna eat it?”

Steve pushed three skinny strands into Bucky’s hand and laughed. “Just hold the ends, jerk.”

Bucky patiently held them there, as Steve twisted and wrapped and overlapped, then held three more as he made another. He laughed and laughed when Steve wrapped the first one around his wrist and squeezed the ends shut around him.

“This is sappy even for you, Steve.”

Steve pushed the second one, the tiny one, into Bucky’s hand and chuckled. “Shut-up. Just do it.”...

 

  
The moment that Bucky’s tan hands had taken the tiny licorice braid and had reverently wrapped it around Stevie’s skinny wrist, was the memory that Steve always crawled back to in his pathetic fake alley hideout. Every time he flicked the wheel to scroll backwards through their impossible timeline, Steve always painfully jammed his finger between the cogs at the precise second that Bucky had squished the ends together in a gooey red seal. He could re-play it over and over on an endless loop, because that had been the first time that Bucky had said, “I love you, Stevie...even if you are a sap.”

    Two young men lying together in the late afternoon sun

their feet intertwined with remnants of the final deconstructed Red Vine.

Twenty toes where before there were ten

with strands of red sugar looped and twisted together again.

Steve bit the inside of his cheek and bounced his head against the rivet seven times, because the timeline had lurched forward and he needed to go back to Bucky. He prayed he’d find him criss-cross. Growling, Steve flung the melting circles towards the stack of concrete blocks in the far corner. He flung them, with perfect aim, into the huge mass of red sticky goo and distorted circles that had been growing unseen for three months. He tossed them there to melt like the memory of small wrists and first times. He threw them there as food for the ants.

“Fuck!” Steve shouted and shoved himself back up, snapping the lid on the round tin. He _had_ to shove himself up before he went back to him. He _had_ to travel back to a time when he hadn't been afraid of losing Bucky, even if he had to pretend that a time like that had ever existed.

He owed Bucky that.

*****

 

 

Steve pressed his sticky palm flat against the reader and the lock clicked open. At first glance, there were no signs of anything out of place, so he proceeded through the apartment towards their bedroom. There was no evidence of splintered chairs and smashed tables, no lingering scent of gunpowder hanging in the air from discharged weapons, and if anything had been moved or thrown, Bucky had taken the time to carefully line the furniture back up with the original indentions in the carpet so that the illusion remained intact. Steve had timed it well.

Quietly turning the corner and leaning against the doorframe of their room, Steve was happy to find criss-cross in full effect. Bucky was sitting in the middle of their bed on top of their slate blue comforter. It was the same smooth surface that Steve had created when he’d pulled it tight across the mattress this morning. There wasn’t even a wrinkled path where Bucky had climbed into the middle.

He was reading the latest collected edition of 'Preacher', courtesy of Clint. It was the fourth volume and Bucky devoured them as fast as Clint shoved them into his waiting hands. Bucky always said that he ‘just liked the art’, but Steve knew it was more than that. Every time he peeked over Bucky's shoulder at the conflicted and tortured faces in the panels, he could tell that Clint absolutely knew it was more too. Steve kept telling himself that it was good that Bucky was picking up a new hobby and carefully put the comics in organized stacks on their desk whenever he left them laying around. He was always cautious not to bend the edges.

Steve studied Bucky’s Jackson Pollock wall and counted thirteen new holes; kinetic energy creating punctures and scratches instead of overlapping paint splatters. There were actually sixteen, if you counted the three places where the blade had impacted so closely that two holes had created one larger void. Steve wondered if he'd done that on purpose? The last time that Tony and Bucky had gone at it, there had been only nine.

Bucky had switched into a pair of grey and white striped pajama pants and the Nine Inch Nails hoodie that he’d ordered off Amazon a couple months ago. Apparently, when Steve had been out with Natasha on a solo mission, Clint had decided that it was a brilliant idea to teach Bucky the joys of internet shopping. Plain brown boxes addressed to ‘Bucky Reznor’ had begun arriving soon after, boggling Steve with their contents. The first time Bucky had tugged the oversize black cotton sweatshirt over his head, he’d rebelliously worn it to a briefing. Tony had looked absolutely delighted at the opportunity to be a complete asshole, and had leaned across the huge conference table to ask if Bucky had robbed a Hot Topic with a grenade launcher.

The black material was already fading to a worn grey because Bucky washed and wore the hoodie constantly, even though Tony made the same stupid joke every damn time. Sometimes, Bucky would hide his new headphones, that had emerged from a brown paper box addressed to ‘Bucky Ramone’, underneath the oversized hood during briefings. Even though nobody else in the meetings...with the hordes of government people that Bucky gave zero shits about...could hear the aggressive music leaking out the sides...Steve always could.

It had all started one night, when they’d only been back at Avenger’s compound for a few weeks. After yet another horrific psych evaluation to clear Bucky for ‘official unofficial missions’, Clint had shown up at their door with a pizza and a cracked CD case. Bucky had been curled up in the corner of the couch, his knees tight against his chest, and Steve had been standing in their overly bright kitchen and had been staring aimlessly into the refrigerator for at least ten minutes.

A slice of steaming pepperoni pizza had been shoved under Steve’s nose, before Clint had yanked out another piece, tossed the box on the counter, and had effortlessly plopped down next to Bucky.

“Hey, bro, I brought you a present. Eat this cheesy masterpiece while I load it up.” Clint had hopped back off the couch and had headed over to their stereo. “I dug this up just for you; dusted off the old CD collection that Nat told me to get rid of...not gonna happen...and pulled out this nineties gem.”

When the loud ‘music’ had started blasting out of the speakers, Clint had started nodding and cranking the volume all the way up, which, since this place was furnished by Stark, meant it had been loud enough to hear all the way in California. Bucky’s eyes had gotten huge like a sugar glider, and Steve had frozen with a long string of mozzarella dangling from his mouth.

“This is Nine Inch Nails!” Clint had shouted with a big grin on his face. “I thought it might be right up your alley after all the shit that Ross put you through today!”

Steve hadn't been sure that, “head like a hole, black as your soul, I’d rather die than give you control” had been the right thing to play at maximum volume for someone in Bucky’s situation, but when he'd climbed off the couch for the first time in hours with a big smile, Steve had let it slide and had finished his piece of pizza.

Soon after, the plain brown boxes had started arriving, sometimes two or three at a time, and Steve had watched Clint slyly handing off more scratched CD cases whenever Bucky was having a bad day. Last month, when Ross had been on on campus bitching at Steve about the need for additional psych testing, Bucky had been quietly sitting next to him scowling when Clint had snuck up to the window behind Ross, stuck out his tongue and had made some weird symbol with his hand. Steve would later learn that this was the official Gene Simmons sign for 'heavy metal', whatever that meant. As Ross had droned on and on, Clint had suddenly thrown two hands in air as 'Head like a Hole' had started blasting through the entire compound at maximum volume. They'd found out later, after Ross had completely lost his shit, that Clint had convinced FRIDAY to ‘help cheer Bucky up’. It had worked perfectly, and Bucky had spent the rest of their time getting screamed at by Ross _and_ Tony with a tiny smile on his face and heavy metal fingers hidden under the table.

So now, plain brown paper boxes arrived several times a week addressed to ‘Bucky Danzig’, ‘Bucky Hetfield’, ‘Bucky Rose’, and Steve’s personal favorite, ‘Bucky Vicious’. Sam had promised that the quickly expanding collection of hoodies, baseball hats, t-shirts and the new set of headphones meant something “probably positive.” Steve honestly didn’t have a clue...

In the two months since the hoodie arrived, Steve _had_ learned that finding Bucky with his nose still shoved in the middle of a comic, and the black hood pulled up all the way, meant that there were still some lingering walls. So Steve hovered for a minute in the doorway and just looked at him. No matter how many days passed with Bucky under the same roof, in the same bed, and in the same time, the miracle that he was _here_ _at all_ never diminished. Steve was endlessly thankful. When one-hundred-year-old Bucky Barnes finally looked up and revealed Steve’s favorite toothy smile, he knew it was all clear.

“What ya hiding under that hood, baby?” Steve tipped his head against the wood and grinned.

“Horror and Rage. What ya hiding under that licorice breath, Stevie?”

“Depression and guilt.”

“Well, at least we know where we stand.” Bucky dropped the book and patted the smooth comforter. “Are you gonna come kiss me with that sticky mouth or what?”

Steve ventured towards him, crawling onto their bed as Bucky shoved the hood off his messy hair. He still hadn’t cut it and it was getting wilder every day. Steve loved it.

Carefully setting the book aside, Steve let his fingers run up the inseam of Bucky’s cotton pants until they were just shy of the parts that he really wanted to touch. He let his thumbs rub the tendon in slow circles, before unfolding Bucky’s legs to pull him into his lap. This close, Steve could feel the true weight of him and see how much the anger had drained his energy: faint creases stretched across his forehead, tiny frown lines carved half moons into the corners of his mouth, and crow’s feet spread out next to his perfect blue eyes. It hurt Steve’s heart to see it, and he wanted to kiss them all away. He ran loving hands over the sides of Bucky’s face, tracing thumbs along cheekbones and pushing hair over symmetrical ears.

“Want me to bake you some of my world famous lasagna?” Bucky slid his fingers under the bottom of Steve’s shirt and tapped all ten tips against the notches of his spine. Every time Bucky touched his skin it still took his breath away. Every damn time.

“You can’t cook,” Steve laughed. “You caught microwavable Mac N’ Cheese on fire yesterday.”

Bucky snorted. “I think I _did_ get that burnt cheese in the joint when I pulled it out of the microwave, but I’m never admitting that to Drunk Satan.” Asymmetrical hands grabbed the meat of Steve's back as Bucky rocked himself forward against his hips. Everything started tingling as Bucky teased, “So, what you’re saying is, you want me to get _Clint_ to bake you a lasagna while I take all the credit for his delicious Italian masterpiece and receive the grateful post-lasagna blow job?”

“Hmm,” Steve moaned, releasing Bucky’s tangled hair and following the seam of his metal shoulder with his index finger. “I do love tasting you.”

The feeling of Bucky’s ass through the wonderful soft pants, the curve of him, the strong muscle, and the subtle motion of his body made Steve start drifting backwards. Letting his hands explore the skin under the waistband, Steve felt himself crossing over to a place of want. He pulled hard on Bucky then, trying desperately to yank him into a space where it was only them and nothing else, a space where nobody could touch them. Diving in to grab the black ties of the hoodie in his mouth, Steve murmured, “You’re so good to me, Buck.”

“You’re easy to be good to, Stevie.”

Gently biting just the ends, Steve leaned back to take in the remarkable face of his true north. Bucky was falling too, voyaging someplace where wrinkles could be smoothed out by strong hands sliding up cotton covered thighs. But when Steve really peered through the rush of endorphins, he could still see it hiding in Bucky’s eyes. Behind the haze of lust, it was still there...the pain was _always_ still there.

Letting the black ends fall, Steve begged, “Bucky, what can I do to make it better? I can talk to Stark again. Make it clear that I won’t tolerate him saying shit like that anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it, Steve. Stark’s earned a few well placed jabs, don’t you think?”

“No! Nobody can talk to you like that! You don’t deserve it. There’s no reason he should...”

“Steve, I really think…” Bucky’s hands stopped counting vertebra and the motion of his hips stilled completely.

“Baby, stop,” Steve interrupted. “You’re working too damn hard to let people keep judging you about the past.” He didn’t understand why they kept coming back to this. Why couldn’t Bucky understand that none of it was his fucking fault!?

Bucky slid off Steve’s lap and flopped backwards on the bed, pulling up his hood as he fell. “Fine. Whatever. Then make me forget.”

“Buck, we can’t keep burying this stuff. Tony had no right to...”

He leaned up on his elbows, his voice low and frustrated when he demanded, “Make me forget by making me remember.”

“Bucky…” Steve didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to make it better. He didn’t know what to do.

“Make me _forget_ by making me _remember_ …” Bucky stretched out his metal arm, the look in his eye asking for Steve to grab his hand.

Steve understood.

Lately, they both seemed so lost, like they were floating unmoored without the night starts to guide them across a churning ocean. But whenever Bucky stretched out his silver arm, Steve knew what he was asking. He needed Steve to make the gap between them go away. He was asking Steve not to miss.

Drawing from the remnants of deconstructed candy, Steve intertwined their fingers before gently pushing Bucky flat on the bed. He touched his toes first, then his shins, then bit softly into the flesh of his thighs before kissing a winding road up his center line. If he loved Bucky enough, Steve could make it go away for both of them...at least for a little while.

So, Steve did the _one thing_ that he always did right...he loved James Buchanan Barnes with every fiber of his being...telling Bucky with every long stroke of his tongue, every careful pulse of his hips, and every possessive embrace that whenever he asked for it, Steve would always provide. At least he could do that right. At least they both felt some kind of peace in a place where they knew how to move together, how to make each other feel good, and how to express their love...even though Steve felt his compass spinning south.

After Bucky had drifted off into restless dreams, Steve had curled up in front of him, running his finger lightly back and forth over the ratty red braid around Bucky’s right wrist; fingerprints tracing over a memory made with cotton strings on a night filled with flickering fire and zig-zagging bats. Reaching further, Steve matched up their wrists so his own red circle lined up perfectly. Stacked on top of one another, Steve could almost imagine them melding into infinity.

The last thing that floated across Steve’s mind as he closed his eyes, was the mesmerizing way that Bucky’s lips had looked curled around a single strand of red licorice in the summer of 1934.

 


	2. Vinegar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading our collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang!  
> [capreversebb](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com//%20)  
> We'll be posting new chapters regularly along with drawings by Lorien (drjezdzany). The final chapter will be posted May 20th.
> 
> Please be aware, this story deals with dark subject matter in a few places (specifically relating to passive self-harm and torture). If you're unsure about this, or need clarification on any of the tags, feel free to contact either one of us on tumblr (links in the end notes).

                              

 

Bucky had spent decades being woken up in horrific ways, getting un-fucking frozen and having his brains scrambled included, and none of those horrors compared to being dragged out of a semi-peaceful sleep by FRIDAY shouting, “Code Black”, over and over and over at three o’clock in the goddamn morning! In fact, it was worse, because even the countless times Bucky had started his day getting painfully thawed out, he wasn’t being ripped away from Steve’s warm naked skin. Even when Hydra had sicked hungry german shepherds on his shivering body as a thoughtful canine alarm clock, the glorious possibility of morning sex wasn’t being stripped away with every growl and bite. Or, maybe this was worse because Bucky hadn’t _known any fucking better_ when he was being woken up for a well-balanced breakfast of excruciating pain with a side of well done torture, because in those days Bucky _didn’t know shit_ ! But _now_ he knew, and that goddamn alarm made him want to scream!

Steve hopped right up in all his naked glory, looking instantly patriotic in front of the plate glass window. He may not _officially_ be Captain America right now, whatever that meant, but he’d _always_ be Captain fucking America; even standing naked in the moonlight with dry come all over his abs. Bucky snorted, because they should put _that shit_ on a poster: Steve, standing tall and proud, one hand saluting and the other strategically holding the shield over his dick, while ropes of hot come glistened and dripped over his perfectly sculpted American pectorals above the tagline: ‘Come one, come all! Captain America wants you to join his blowjob army!’

If Bucky could draw even half as good as Steve, he’d draw up that patriotic porn poster in an instant and put it in a gilded frame over their bed. Fucking brilliant.

He flopped over and grabbed his hoodie off the floor, throwing it towards his backpack. If he had to be in the same room as Drunk Satan, he’d need Reznor’s full support...especially after yesterday’s debacle. Bucky looked down at his metal hand and tried the grip. Yeah, it still stuck, and after what Bucky did with that pole, it wasn’t getting fixed anytime soon. Score one for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

Steve started yanking on clothes and asking precise questions to the ceiling, while Bucky rolled his eyes and made up his own answers...because he fucking felt like it.

“FRIDAY, threat assessment?”

Steve pulls on teeny tiny red boxer briefs, ordered special off Amazon by the world’s most considerate boyfriend...thank you Calvin Klein. Bucky’s ass assessment? Perfect. Tight. Gorgeous. Sigh.

“Hostages? Casualties?”

Steve tugs up grey sweats just enough to cover hip bones. Enticing happy trail remains in full view. Hostages? Bucky’s dick. Casualties? Bucky’s erection, because Drunk Satan is legit evil. Worse even.

“Full team? Wheels up in ten?”

Steve yanks his tight grey t-shirt over dry-come-abs, making Bucky slightly less angry. Come-abs under stealth suit? Hilarious. Full team? That meant Bucky. Wheels up in ten? Fucking hell.

When Steve finally stopped talking to the ceiling and turned around, Bucky saw the old familiar look. His pretty blue eyes said, ‘I don’t wanna do this, Buck, but people are in trouble and they need our help...I’m so sorry.’

Bucky was used to it, and he was still a sucker for it, which was the _only_ reason he crawled out of his perfect blanket cave. Seriously, their comforter was goose down and it was the warmest, puffiest, fluffiest, cocoon of happiness ever created; although his basis for comparison was spectacularly pathetic. Spotty memory number one: a threadbare blanket, doing nothing to stop the frigid draft blowing through a Brooklyn apartment as he shivered alone in bed. Spotty memory number two: the same threadbare blanket, _still_ doing absolutely nothing to stop the freezing cold draft, or to warm up shivering little Steve who was curled up in his arms. Spotty memory number three: no blanket, as he tried to catch five minutes of shut-eye in a muddy trench in Azzano. Less spotty memory number four: Steve’s Captain America uniform, serving as extra insulation in Italy after they’d tried out his new supersize dick for the first time...okay, that one wasn’t pathetic, but it was too memorable to skip. Perfectly clear memory number five: under a sheet of ripped plastic, awaiting extraction in an abandoned warehouse after the Kennedy assassination. Perfectly clear memory number six: in a musty sleeping bag in Bucharest, trying to figure out if the memories of a threadbare blanket in a drafty Brooklyn apartment were real. So, it was entirely possible that this broad assortment of awful ‘sleeping’ locations might have made him biased towards the fifteen-hundred-dollar goose down comforter.

But those pretty blue eyes...damn. Bucky might not remember everything about the endless times he’d followed Steve into scuffles, fights, wars, missions, and drama, but he _did_ remember _why_ he’d marched right after that stubborn little shit, big or small. It was Bucky’s heart. It had always told him to watch Steve’s six, even before he’d known what that meant...even after he’d forgotten. That urge had always been there, and it made Bucky feel warm, even outside of his comfy goose down palace. The only difference these days was Bucky got to see firsthand how much his mere presence fucked up the Avengers entirely. Good times.

“I love you, Buck,” Steve said quietly, pulling open the middle drawer and tossing him a pair of jeans.

Bucky ignored them, because there was no way in hell he was shoving his ass in anything but sweats in the middle of the night. He gently shouldered Steve out of the way and grabbed his new Adidas track pants instead, taking a second to look down at his dick and mourn its freedom as he slid them on. He fought the urge to apologize to his penis out loud.

Even though he felt grumpy, and horny, and annoyed, Bucky had to admit that Steve really did look gorgeous in the moonlight. Maybe _that_ was the bright side of being hauled out of bed for another catastrophic emergency? How else would he have gotten the opportunity to appreciate how the blue glow lit up the ridge of Steve’s sharp nose? Or the way his strong jaw cast a curved black shadow onto his broad chest? A flash of bony ankles made Bucky jerk his head... _bony ankles stick out the bottom of a threadbare blanket, the same blue light illuminates Steve’s face in a superimposed frame_... but Bucky couldn’t place it. He couldn’t place most things from those days.

Bucky bent his forehead against Steve’s chest and tried to push it away. Even if he _could_ clearly remember Steve’s bony ankles, they wouldn’t fit with Bucky’s ankles now. His breathing was getting too shallow and they didn’t have time for this shit. Facts. State the facts… He was Bucky Barnes. He was collapsing against Steve. Steve was alive and loved him. He was in their bedroom in upstate New York. He was mad about his blanket. The year was 2017. He needed to put on a shirt. He didn’t want to put on a shirt. He forgot to put on underwear...

Even though his breathing started to regulate, the plates on Bucky’s arm started to whir and move in anticipation, because Steve needed him. Fact: Steve needed him, so he’d go. Why? Because Bucky loved Steve Rogers’ ankles no matter what the size. Staring at the blue veins pulsing over the tendons on Steve’s big feet, Bucky whispered, “I love you too, Stevie.”

“I’ll rub your feet when we get back.” Steve murmured, before kissing the top of his head. There was another flash, and Bucky swore he could feel snow. It happened every time he felt...god...scared?...vulnerable?...who knew? It was some sort of short-circuit in his brain that no amount of time, or therapy, or tweaking by T’Challa’s people, could fix. Luckily, Steve distracted Bucky from the ice crystallizing on his eyelashes with carefully placed ear nibbles, as he whispered, “You know how much I love your toes.”

“You don’t love my toes after they’ve been shoved in my stinky boots for four days,” Bucky laughed, before quickly pecking Steve on the lips.

“Baby, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Steve smiled at him like a little shit, then started throwing their crap in a duffel bag to try to distract from the fact that he knew _damn well_ what Bucky was talking about...

A few months back, Steve had decided it would be a fantastic idea to get busy in the Quinjet, and there’d been a _very_ unfortunate stinky foot/puke experience. Normally, Bucky would have been totally on board with Steve’s ‘gettin’ busy plan’, because any opportunity to spend a little quality one-on-one time with Steve (and all his parts) was _always_ welcome. But the mission had been four long days deep in the steamy jungles of Cambodia, rooting out enhanced insurgents in dirt and crap-filled underground tunnels, so he’d understandably been a little hesitant. But Steve would not be denied, and he hadn’t wanted a simple hand job under the suit, or a quick and dirty fuck against the weapon’s closet, no, no, no...Steve had wanted Bucky to get completely naked on the Quinjet floor. The need to ‘ravish Bucky properly’ had wiped out all logic, negating the fact that there was only a thirty minute window before Sam and Clint got back, and that they were both covered in jungle slime. But against all odds, everything had gone swimmingly until Steve lost his goddamn mind and sucked Bucky’s pinky toe into his mouth. Life lesson: jungle feet + toe sucking= horrible fucking idea.

Shaking his head to try to clear out the godawful image of Steve’s puke puddling between his knees, Bucky laughed and bent over to grab one shoe from under the bed. He found the match behind the fake plant in the corner and gave the plastic leaves a little pat. After Steve kept killing the real plants in their apartment, Natasha finally bought them fake ones, and sometimes it felt like Bucky had a lot in common with the plastic stand-ins.

Steve snuck up behind him as he was fondling the plant, pulling a black t-shirt over Bucky’s head and taking the time to drag his knuckles over every rib before straightening the hem. “Baby,” he chuckled, “I love your toes no matter what.”

God, Steve was trying so damn hard...why couldn’t that be enough?

“I know you do, Stevie, even though that qualifies as a creepy fetish. If you wanna rub my stinky feet I’ll...” Bucky quirked up the corner of his mouth, before sliding on his Vans. “...I’ll let you.”

Steve barked out a laugh, then yanked a navy blue baseball hat over his messy hair. It was one of Bucky’s favorite looks. Something about how the blond ends stuck out all crazy, and his ridiculous sweaty hat hair after a long day. It was fucking adorable.

Grabbing Bucky’s right shoulder (he always grabbed the right one), Steve busted out the _concerned_ voice. “You okay to do this?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“Liar.”

Bucky just smiled, because there was no reason to respond to the truth. He _was_ a liar, and it was getting harder and harder to figure out what the truth actually was. And even if Bucky wanted to explain it, Steve wasn’t ready to listen.

But none of that mattered right now, because Steve was shouldering his bag and staring at Bucky like he was waiting for permission to walk out the door. God, Bucky loved that face, and the genuine naivety that allowed Steve to think there was even the option for Bucky to stay home, wherever that was. He snatched up his hoodie and his headphones, and thought about a crowded bar in London where a pretty brunette in a red dress had asked for _Steve’s_ help. Help he’d agreed to provide, without any input from Sergeant Barnes. Permission for Steve to do the ‘right thing’ had _never_ been Bucky’s to grant, and even if it was, Steve would have done what he wanted in the end, regardless. That right there, was the whole reason Bucky knew he’d _always_ follow the little shit from Brooklyn wherever his stubborn ass wanted to go...even if the stubborn little shit only existed in broken flashbacks and incomplete movies that made Bucky feel like the wind was whipping giant snowflakes across his face. Bucky would always follow. It was in his programming.

“C’mon Stevie, we’ve got lives to save. Hero business.” Bucky put on the fake smile he’d perfected in Italy, the one that rallied the troops around their Captain, and grabbed Steve’s strong hand with his plastic one.

As the apartment door slammed shut behind them, and they headed through the complex towards the next catastrophe, neither of them said a word.

Deep down Steve _had_ to realize it too...

They were both liars, and they were both heros...like it or not.

*****

 

Everyone else was suited up and strapped in tight, while Bucky sat unrestrained in the copilot seat next to Clint. The basic concept was simple: he couldn’t stand the feeling of the fucking straps anymore. Even though Steve fretted about it every single time, Bucky flat out refused to click the harness unless they were taking off, landing, or in imminent danger of being blown out of the sky. And if that inevitable missile ever _did_ lock onto the Quinjet, Bucky would still stare out the window, watching it get closer………. and closer…..and closer and closer before finally snapping the horrible buckle at the last possible second. Clint had spent the first few missions after Wakanda bitching about it, then had promptly let that shit go. Steve...not so much.

Sam was decked out in leather and canvas, looking uncomfortable as fuck. Natasha was ready for action in her black catsuit featuring the ‘Stark Special Edition Blue Glow-Things’ ...seriously, how the hell was she supposed to sneak up on targets when she was lit up like a bug zapper? It made no sense. Stark was dressed appropriately for his lead role as Drunk Satan in a gaudy red dress shirt with a really LOUD tie. Just looking at him made Bucky long for his super dark sunglasses that he completely forgot to pack. Dammit. Then, there was Steve, lookin’ all commanding and sexy in his stealth suit (that still had the white star on the front, even though...well, that shit was complicated). Bucky snickered, thinking about Clint’s take on the whole ‘mantle of Captain America’ situation. He’d said it was like when Prince changed his name to a symbol, but everyone still called him ‘Prince’ and associated him with the color purple. A copy of ‘Purple Rain’ might have ended up in Bucky’s possession after that very confusing original analogy. Bucky’s favorite song is “When Doves Cry”, because it’s fucking amazing. No debate.

The shield was leaning next to Steve’s seat, and that was even _more_ complicated. How the hell are you gonna pretend you aren’t Captain America when you’re running around with his iconic red, white, and blue shield? You can’t exactly spend your time saving everyone from everything, and getting yourself plastered all over the cover of People Magazine at least once a month, and ask people to call you _Steve_. It was mind boggling, and honest to god it made Bucky laugh whenever he thought about it. One of his favorite pastimes was singing “Purple Rain” over the comms whenever Steve threw the shield. Clint laughed every damn time, and Steve was getting pretty good at giving Bucky the finger between throws.

But even logical Clint had refused to listen to Bucky’s genius logic about proper plane fashion, and was wrapped up tight like a leather taquito with excellent shoulder muscles. Bucky sunk down in his seat and chuckled, wondering if their asses were all chaffing and musing about his newfound Bucky Logic: putting on your full uniform before boarding the Quinjet was fucking stupid. They had a five hour flight, and the likelihood of getting attacked by grotesque aliens spewing radioactive slime out of flailing tentacles, overtaken by Stark’s next wave of narcissistic robots, or getting eaten by giant sharks leaping from the unexplored depths of the Atlantic, was low enough for Bucky to feel comfortable enough to be _comfortable._ Black pants, tight black t-shirt, black socks, and his super angry black hoodie thrown over the top (black as your soul, right?)

Bucky’s heavy boots were thrown haphazardly on the floor next to him, along with the straps and sheaths that held all his weapons. He wasn’t irresponsible; if push came to shove, he could suit up in less than twenty seconds. It wasn’t like he had to attach his primary weapon or anything (that shit was bolted to his fucking skeleton). He stretched his new hand out in front of him and extended it fully; it was still strange that this version had been Bucky’s choice. Blowing out a breath he pulled the sleeve of his angry hoodie down over the hand, easily hiding everything except his silver fingertips, because he didn’t want to think about any of that right now. Instead, Bucky ran them back and forth along the stiff inseam of his pants and stared straight ahead. Clint was flying them east into the sun, making it easy for Bucky to get lost in the blinding rays, and to think about what he _really_ wanted to be wearing...and doing...

If Bucky could pull his soft Adidas sweatpants back over his legs, and crawl back under the goose-feather-dream-blanket to squeeze Steve’s perfect ass...damn, that would be the closest thing to heaven that someone with his track record was ever gonna get. Actually, scratch the sweatpants. If Bucky could strip down to absolutely nothing, and lie underneath his marshmallow-cloud-comforter with his cock flopping around, while his hands squeezed and kneaded Steve’s perfect ass...that _would_ be heaven. St. Peter himself would have to throw open the pearly gates, stepping aside as Bucky floated through with metal wings and a hand firmly planted on each cheek. Guns and violence vs. goose-down and butt grabs? Was it even a contest? Glancing back at Steve, Bucky wondered if he ever felt like his uniform was too tight?

His face looked just as stiff as his stealth suit. Zero fun. Bucky had spent the first two hours of the flight harshly judging Avenger’s fashion and cracking jokes with Clint, making a valiant attempt to block out the tension brewing behind him. But it was getting harder and harder to ignore and Bucky was running out of jokes. It was a hostage situation in Kazakhstan, multiple enhanced targets on site, covert government request for immediate intervention, minimum intel, media blackout, multiple casualties reported, unmet demands resulting in hourly executions. Priority one: recover kidnapped scientist before hostiles could successfully extract sensitive data. What was this top-secret-world-threatening information? Well, thanks to The Accords, that kind of vital information was _classified_.

Ross’ orders called for the full team. Bucky’s objective: provide sniper cover with Barton during infiltration. Of course, Barton was perfectly capable of handling that on his own, but trusting Bucky on the ground during high risk missions wasn’t something Ross felt comfortable with yet (and most likely never would). It didn’t matter that he and Steve were almost unstoppable together. It didn’t matter that he and Steve had led four successful low-level missions, without a hitch, over the past three months. It didn’t matter that he and Steve were the logical choice to take point. It didn’t matter that Bucky’s fucked up brain hadn’t glitched _once_ in combat since Wakanda. It only mattered that he got flashes of little Steve when Bucky was trying to make waffles, or that he occassional did things like ramming metal poles into Stark’s floor. His brain might not be a well oiled machine in daily life, but he’d been rock solid on missions. Bottom line: Ross was a fucking idiot.

But the fact that General Idiot had swallowed his ego, and called for Bucky at all, meant the situation was serious. Or at least _someone_ thought it was serious, based on _something_ _somebody_ said. _Somebody_ who was _probably_ sitting in a stodgy conference room _somewhere_ eating a complimentary asiago bagel _,_ with lots of other _somebodies_ who inexplicably had higher clearance levels than the Avengers. The Accords were fucking bullshit, and they were gonna get people killed. It was just a matter of time.

Bucky pulled up his socked feet, and wrapped his arms around his knees, as Clint flew them forward in time, erasing minutes with every mile. God, that was a deep fucking thought. Too deep. Better to ponder the real catastrophe happening in his pants. His underwear was totally giving him a wedgie, which wouldn’t be a goddamn problem if he had on his fucking sweatpants (because he’d be commando). But he wasn’t, and underwear deep in his ass-crack made Bucky start contemplating how it wasn’t just his ass that felt wrong... _everything_ about this mission felt off. The sketchy intel made Bucky question General Ross’ orders to go in hot, but Clint kept on flying, Tony kept on being a dick, Steve kept on looking pissed, Sam kept trying to be the peacekeeper, and Natasha kept right on watching the whole debacle out of the corner of her eyes. Bucky’s objective: keep on keeping his mouth shut. It was a really healthy working environment.

Thankfully, the one man Bucky could _always_ count on to open his big mouth, questioned the intel too. Steve’s dissention was the gasoline fueling the current argument behind him, and it was starting to get fucking hot.

“Tony, we need to do recon first. That’s standard procedure, I don’t understand why you‘d risk…”  

Oh, Steve was getting bitchy, and Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle. Picturing how snotty Steve’s face must look as he stared down Drunk Satan in his bright red shirt was highly amusing. Even in Bucky’s mind, the level of righteous anger conveyed through Steve’s pinched eyebrows was super impressive.

“Well _Steve_ ,” Tony hissed, “you don’t _have_ to understand because you’re not in charge. And _I’m_ not in charge, in case you’ve forgotten. So, unless you wanna take another side trip to visit your less-handsome sugar daddy...you know, to frolic in the jungle, sipping mango smoothies out of juicy pineapples, while the Avengers become even more of a joke...you need to stop bitching.”

Bucky snorted, because even Drunk Satan called Steve out on his bitch face.

“T’Challa’s definity the more handsome sugar daddy,” Clint stage whispered, and Bucky lost it. He went straight for the fist bump, because goddamn, he loved Clint!

“Did I miss a joke? Are you two jerking each other off with your grade school humor up there? Because nobody else thinks you’re funny,” Tony snapped.

“I don’t know, man,” Sam chuckled, “I think they’re hilarious.”

Bucky turned around just in time to watch Tony curl his upper lip and point at Sam. “Didn’t ask you. The opinions of Team Cap members don’t matter anymore.”

Jesus fucking christ. There wasn’t one, but _two_ bitch-faces taking over the plane. One tainted by the subtle hint of approval, and the other...well the other one was Tony, and he could be as bitchy as he wanted. There was no reason to engage, so Bucky just rested his cheek against the seat and smiled at Steve’s face.

That bitchy look was something Bucky’s fucked-up brain remembered clearly right away, even though he hadn’t been able to remember _James Buchanan Barnes_ looking at it. The first time he’d stood in the Smithsonian, looking at unfamiliar pictures that somehow felt familiar, flashes of bitch-face-Steve had started busting through the haze. Snippets of little Steve...small Steve...tiny Steve...Bucky hadn’t known what to call him...had run through his brain like mini movies with no beginning and no end. Sometimes they played forward, sometimes in reverse, sometimes in slow-motion, and usually with dark corroded frames obscuring random pieces in the middle...

Bitch-face-little-Steve, staring down a husky kid with a shit load of freckles and bright red hair. ‘Freckles’ had a stolen baseball glove in his clenched fist behind home plate...or it could’ve been a stolen ball on the pitcher’s mound. The glitching frames suggested a dusty baseball field...somewhere. The space seemed too open to be Brooklyn...but maybe it was. He didn’t know, but the smell was intact; Bucky was pretty sure it had smelled like earthworms after a heavy spring rain.

Bitch-face-little-Steve, glaring at a nameless altar boy, after they caught him skimming money from the offering plate. The projector told him stone walls curved skyward to create impossible archways overhead, and the light from the rose window sprinkled a rainbow of shapes across the wooden pews. But Bucky couldn’t tell if the pieces of stained glass were soldered together to create a visage of Christ, a godly juxtaposition, or an abstract kaleidoscope of colors meant to inspire a deep spiritual connection. He couldn’t remember what happened...or why they were there. It was just a five second flash inside a stone church...somewhere. There was no smell.

Bitch-face-little-Steve, directing every bit of righteous pink rage at James Buchanan Barnes who’d forgotten to feed the neighbor’s...dog?...cat?...he couldn’t remember. That snippet was a two second movie with no context, no setting, no sound, nothing...just fondness.

Bucky was positive he’d _always_ loved that bitchy look on little Steve, in the same way he knew with absolute certainty that he’d _always_ hated peppers. He didn’t have a single recollection of eating a pepper _ever:_ not a crisp green bell pepper, not a sweet yellow one fresh from the vine, not a wrinkled jalapeno, or the fiery ghost variety...not a single one. But Bucky knew in his gut that peppers were fucking disgusting. So, when Clint had shoved an orange habanero under his nose last month, it had been pure instinct for Bucky to trust his gut and holler, “There’s no way I’m putting that pepper in my mouth!”

Gazing at Steve now, the emotions brewing in Bucky’s stomach were identical to the peppers, minus Clint’s predictable but hilarious “You’ll put Steve’s balls in your mouth, but you won’t try this delicious pepper!” joke. Bucky’s instinctive love for that expression came from deep inside, and it made him feel lots of...something that he knew had always been there: Pride? Respect? Admiration? It didn’t matter, Bucky just liked it.

Natasha’s stern voice broke the bitch-face spell, and Bucky reluctantly stopped staring at bright-pink Steve to see how the Black Widow would fare in this shitstorm. “It makes sense to get closer and gather additional intel. Once we cross into Kazakhstan, FRIDAY might have more success linking in. If not, we should send in Redwing.”

Oh, Natasha, Natasha, Natasha. Seriously, Bucky had to talk to her about the strategic limitations of that glowing outfit. But then he realized his shiny silver hand was reflecting sunlight all over the goddamn cockpit, and nixed that idea. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear as he snickered, because stomping around for seventy years dressed in black leather bondage gear probably disqualified him from the judges panel. Clint had shown him a porno...it was very...um, _educational_ . In Hawkeye’s kinky class, Bucky had learned that Hydra was even more twisted than he’d thought...seriously, who sewed that shit!? A Dominatrix? He’d also learned that he _never_ wanted Steve to wear a liquid latex bodysuit with a white fuzzy bunny mask. That shit was just scary. But there was one good thing that came out of crash course in bdsm: at least once a week, Bucky made sure to give Steve’s ass a few really good slaps. He’d even had FRIDAY put ‘Steve’s Saturday Night Spanking’ in his official schedule. She’d been cool enough to not ask questions.

Bucky would much rather ponder The Black Widow’s fashion choices, or the way Steve’s ass wiggled when he gave it a good spank, than listen to Tony’s snarky non-answers to Natasha’s legitimate questions, but he was stuck in a goddamn airplane. He had no choice.

“FRIDAY can’t link in because there’s nothing to fucking link to! We’ve been over this! Whoever these people are, they’re stuck in the Middle Ages. I’m half expecting to be attacked by catapults and dragons. Clint, keep an eye out for Smaug!” Tony rolled his eyes like everyone around him was a complete idiot, and Bucky was impressed that Steve hadn’t lost his shit. But it was coming, oh yeah, it was coming.

Natasha leaned forward on her knees and said, “Fine, then we deploy Redwing.”

“Okay, I’m gonna talk _really really really_ slow right now.” Tony matched her forward lean, then straightened his paisley tie before continuing his slow-motion tirade. “We have what the Kazakhstan Ministry of Defense gave us and that’s it. I have to get clearance from Ross to deploy Redwing, and his orders were very clear: sneak in, kill the bad guys, save the scientist, rescue the hostages. It’s the plot of every _Mission Impossible_ movie. Haven’t you people watched the entire Tom Cruise filmography? No? Well, that’s a shame, because _Cocktail_ was an excellent movie, and _Eyes Wide Shut_ was completely underrated. It’s Kubrick for Christ’s sake! Are you getting my point here? It’s not my call!”

Bucky heard Steve starting to pound his head back against his seat, so he counted in his head (because Steve was nothing if not predictable). Seven times, starting now. “We should’ve waited for Wanda,” Steve huffed. “It would’ve only taken two hours to fly her in, and without Thor, Vision, and Banner, we don’t have enough firepower to go in blind without backup!”

“You're totally right, Steve. Maybe we should turn back right now and pick her up from ‘Whiny Witch Summer Camp’? Since the intel says they’re murdering one hostage per hour, it can be your job to call the extra eight additional families with dead loved ones and inform them that The Avengers wanted to ‘wait for Wanda’. I’m sure they’ll understand. Plus, that’s _also_ not my call! Are you people deaf? Hawkeye excluded. Sorry Clint!" Tony shouted, loud enough that it hurt Bucky’s ears. “Can you hear me up there?”

“Yeah, Stark, I hear you loud and clear.” Clint ducked his head and adjusted their altitude, before shooting a glance at Bucky and mouthing ‘asshole’.

“See! Even the deaf guy understands me. No excuses for the rest of you! I must be stuttering or something. FRIDAY, am I stuttering?”

“No comment, boss.”

Sam gave it a shot, trying his buttery smooth calm counselor voice. “Man, we should _at least_ send in Bucky first to do some recon. He can tell us what we’re really looking at, before we make a move.”

“Are you kidding me!? I don’t even want him here!" Tony hissed. “Yesterday, he destroyed my best approximation of his favorite highchair with a terrible-twos-temper-tantrum! But he’s not a cute little Gerber baby throwing sticky Cheerios all over the kitchen, no, that dick slammed a three foot metal beam straight through my furniture and into the goddamn floor! And guess what? I can’t get it out! Even with the fucking suit! It’s like Excalibur in the middle of my workshop! He’s like demented Merlin...if Merlin was crazy, had a brain like rotten swiss cheese, and used his magic to mindlessly murder people. There’s no way in hell I’m breaking direct orders to send the rogue wizard in solo! Are you insane?”

Bucky gritted his teeth, and did what he always did when Stark started digging; he closed his eyes and remembered squeezing the life out of Drunk Satan’s mother...no, he stopped himself and blew out a long slow breath, because his victims deserved respect. He remembered squeezing the life out of _Tony’s_ mother...Maria. And Tony’s father...Howard. There weren’t any pieces of film missing from this movie, and when Bucky pressed play, the entire mission appeared in radiant technicolor with The Soldier’s horrific actions popping out in realistic 3-D: the way the motorcycle fishtailed when it made contact with the rear quarter panel, the brutal crunch of metal against the trunk of a tree, the distinctive silver of Howard’s hair contrasted against the champagne car door, the sickening way his nose collapsed under The Soldier’s knuckles, the iridescent cream of Maria’s silk suit, the sound of her voice when she screamed Howard’s name, and smell of fire and gasoline drenching the country air. It was all there, every despicable frame, and Bucky fucking deserved whatever Tony wanted to throw at him. Wrapping his flesh hand around his thigh, Bucky allowed muscle memory to recreate the exact amount of pressure The Winter Soldier had applied to Maria Stark’s airway to avoid leaving incriminating evidence. He almost wished he’d squeezed her throat with the metal hand _,_ as if that could provide some kind of absolution, but he hadn’t. Bucky squeezed his thigh and held his breath, so he’d keep his fucking mouth shut.

“No,” Sam snapped, “I’m not insane! I’m logical. You should try it sometime. It tends to keep people alive."

“Whatever Spock. Not. My. Call. Any. More. Why doesn’t anyone seem to remember this? _It’s not my call!_ I thought Judas the Assassin up there was the one with the memory problems? Hey Judas, what did you spend your bag of silver on? I hope you got paid _at least_ double for crucifying my mom. Women and children cost extra right? Is that how you’ve been supporting your Hot Topic addiction?”

Eleven pounds of pressure to occlude carotid arteries without soft tissue damage.

“Tony I fucking told you…” Steve yelled, unbuckling his harness. Bucky didn’t have to look, he knew exactly what Steve would do before he did it, so he kept on squeezing. He could hear the heavy footfalls of his combat boots as stood up and widened his stance, followed by the scratching sound the stiff fabric of his suit made when he rolled his shoulders back. And while Bucky loved him for it, he didn’t want to listen anymore.

It was horrible, and in three months it hadn’t gotten any better. Maybe, it was even getting worse. Bucky didn’t want to look, and he didn’t want to listen, and he didn’t want to be here, but he did it anyway. He _always_ did it anyway. Bucky shifted in his seat, just in time to watch Steve’s face turn red as he fought with Tony...correction...as he fought with Tony _again_ about _Bucky._ It was _always_ about him in some way. Same shit, different day.

Steve destroyed the Avengers...Bucky’s fault.

Steve’s love for Bucky got everyone thrown in prison...Bucky’s fault.

Steve’s love for Bucky paralyzed Rhodes...also Bucky’s fault.

Steve’s love for Bucky got Sharon demoted...sort of Bucky’s fault.

Half the team was still on some sort of tight-leashed-deep-shit-probation with Ross...totally Bucky’s fault.

T’Challa was on everyone’s shit list for giving them asylum...definitely Bucky’s fault.

Wanda was busy ‘finding herself’ halfway across the country because of what happened with Vision...obviously Bucky’s fault.

Steve’s love for Bucky was tearing Steve apart...completely Bucky’s fault.

Bucky killed and killed and killed, and sweet Stevie Rogers gave him a cozy place to live, made him extra chocolaty hot cocoa with too many mini-marshmallows, showered him with buckets of unconditional love, and everyone else involved was expected to be cool as a cucumber. Yeah right...that was fucking realistic. Anger was radiating from Tony’s skin as he stepped toe to toe with Steve, and every ounce of his hatred and rage was justified; every cruel name, every rude comment, every well placed jab...all of it. If Bucky hated himself for every single horrific thing he’d ever done, why shouldn’t Tony be allowed to hate him too?

Bucky jumped when Clint decided to slap his knee out of the blue.

“Hey, don’t listen to it, man. _I’m_ glad you’re here.” Clint didn’t look at Bucky, focusing instead on the controls, but his calm voice made Bucky hone in on him immediately. There was something about Clint that always made Bucky feel like he _could_ belong in this world, and it was always a welcome relief from trying to fit into the past. Bucky turned back around and looked out at the sky rushing past him. God, it was so much better facing forward.

“They’re right you know."

“About the mission? Yeah, this is sideways. It’s all been sideways lately.” Clint pointed towards the backpack resting next to his seat. “Hey bro, toss me my sunglasses.”

“I forgot mine, and I’m mad about it.” Bucky slid the shades out of the side pocket and shoved them on his face. They were the wraparound kind, very Terminator. “These match my persona don’t you think? I’m totally keeping these. And I’m not talking about the mission.”

“Well, _they’re_ talking about the mission, so what the hell are you talking about? And dude, I’m flying a jet at over a thousand miles per hour and the sun‘s right in my eyes! Give me my goddamn sunglasses!” Clint laughed, and stretched out a grabby hand.

The yelling behind them kept right on going, and Sam was getting loud now too, which meant shit was getting real. Bucky blew out a long breath, that vibrated his lips, and handed over the shades. “It all comes back to me. The shit. All of it.”

“You’re giving yourself a lot of credit there, buddy. I know you’re the man, but c’mon, let go of some of that ego.”

Bucky smiled a little at the windshield, because Clint had just hit him with a magical ‘smile arrow’. The man could be busy shooting arrows through terrorist’s eyeballs, but if he even got an inkling that Bucky was bummed, Clint would always pause target practice and nail Bucky with a smile arrow. He was getting better at hitting Steve with them too, although he was a much more elusive target. Especially when he was all balled up like a turtle behind his mighty shield.

They were two hours out, which meant Bucky should start thinking about doing weapon’s checks, but instead he propped his feet up on the side window and thought about the pre-Bucky Avengers, and post-Sergeant Barnes/pre-Bucky Steve (that was confusing). Basically, what life was like before Bucky made everything go to hell. After his brain had started to come back online, he’d watched the Avengers from an appropriate distance (okay, that was complete bullshit), after DC he’d _totally_ followed Steve to New York and stalked the shit out of him. Bucky had spent a few months trailing Steve as he wandered around the streets of New York City like a lost puppy with overgrown paws and big sad blue eyes. Every morning, at the godawful hour of six o’clock, Bucky leaned against the glass and metal wall of the colossal H &M, pretending he was super into the latest styles of skinny jeans, while Steve went into the Starbucks across the street. Hydra had never trained The Winter Soldier to pretend he loved skinny jeans, so Bucky’s acting skills were really put to the test. Somehow he’d managed to keep up the charade for _months_ , despite being the proud owner of thick thighs that would _never_ fit into those fucking jeans.

Seven days a week, Bucky had pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes while Steve had ordered a Venti coffee. Black. Black like the night. Black as your soul. It was depressing. And every single time sad-Steve slinked out of that Starbucks, Bucky had to fight the overwhelming urge to charge full throttle across the street, leaping over yellow taxis and weaving between city busses, to order something sugary and sweet from the barista, to replace Steve’s sad black cup. But he didn’t, for very good reasons. Number one: at the time, Bucky’d had no fucking clue why he’d wanted to do something so insane. Number two: it hadn’t seemed like a very good idea to casually show up after seventy some years to attack Captain America with whip cream and chocolate sprinkles. So, Bucky had just watched the big blond sad puppy wander up and down the busy sidewalks, and trailed after him like a scraggly lost puppy who’d escaped from the pound.

But then things had started to change. Steve had started laughing and smiling with Natasha after they’d bought hot dogs from a street vendor or gone for a ride on his motorcycle. When Sam had come into town for a visit, he and Steve had gone to a bar to play pool and talk over beers. Bucky sat at the bar to eavesdrop, making small talk with the bartender as he slammed useless shots. Sure, there had been a few emotional moments, but for the most part Steve sounded just fine.

But Bucky had still followed him, watching Steve smile and noting the change in his step... trying to convince himself that he should leave. The night Clint had taken Steve to some hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, where he’d ordered shrimp lo mein and made a disastrous attempt with the chopsticks, was the night he’d made up his mind. Bucky had felt pathetic, staring through the steam covered window strung with red Christmas lights, because Steve was doubled over laughing and Bucky was standing alone in the snow. It all became crystal clear in that moment; Steve was fine. Steve was _fine_ without him, and Bucky would _always_ be covered in red snow. When Steve dropped a million noodles into his lap and Clint fell out of his chair laughing, Bucky had pulled his winter coat shut and finally walked away.

He’d gotten the stalking under control in Bucharest. Which was completely necessary because he’d been such a fucking mess, he was _still_ a fucking mess, but he’d declared Bucharest a stalker-free zone (well, at least no more stalking in person) and it had helped. Steve had been doing fine at the hero business, without all the shit Bucky added to the job description, so he’d stayed away.

Until he didn’t. The red braid around his right wrist proved that.

So here they were, one big fucked-up family stuffed into a Quinjet like angry sardines in kevlar uniforms, flying to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what. The yelling was making Bucky’s head spin, so when Natasha _finally_ told them to sit down and shut-up, he wanted to kiss her.

Bucky pulled his hair over his face like Chewbacca, before asking, “Hey Clint, when’s the last time you flew a mission without all this chaos?”

“Oh, man,” he chuckled, then adjusted his shades. “It’s _always_ been chaos.”

Bucky gave him the bullshit eyes, because Barton was playing dumb. Sure, he was cute and blond and pulled it off with most people, but not with Bucky. Bucky’s bullshit eyes were better, and it took mere seconds for Clint to give in.

“Aww, fucking fine, man. For me, the flight to Sokovia. It was horrible, but at least everyone was together. Nobody was hurt...or dead.” Clint paused, then swallowed hard before continuing, “Nat would say inbound on the Crossbones mission.”

“She would?”

“She has.”

Bucky ventured a glance back at her, and her face was stone. He remembered that Natalia’s ability to mask her emotions was one of her greatest strengths, something she’d been praised for in The Red Room, but looking at her now made him sad. Like somehow, he’d failed her. The Soldier, left out of cryo too long, had grown fond of the little wisp of a girl who easily snapped men’s necks with her thighs. Bucky missed her, and he was so sorry he’d forgotten. She didn’t deserve this bullshit. None of them did. Goddammit, if _anyone_ deserved some sort of peace in their life, it was Natasha.

His eyes landed on Steve, and Bucky had to squeeze the armrests to deny the desperate urge to crawl across the floor and press his cheek against Steve’s knee. The realization hit Bucky like whip cream and chocolate and it took his breath away. That was it: Bucky wanted to look up into Steve’s blue eyes and feel _heard_ . He wanted to spew out a bunch of incomprehensible bullshit, because Bucky didn’t have a fucking clue what he needed, and know that Steve was truly _listening_.

Even in Wakanda Bucky had felt it. Swimming together under the waterfall, it had been there. Testing out his new arm by petting birds and snakes, it was there. Staring in wonder at the impossible number of stars, it had been there. It had been easier to ignore and to play make-believe when Bucky had been acting like Tarzan, swinging through the vines with a gorgeous man by his side, but even in the jungle mirage, he’d felt it. Moving back to New York just brought it front and center.

It wasn’t the missions, it wasn’t Ross, it wasn’t the testing (didn’t they know Bucky could manipulate every result of every test? Fucking idiots) and it wasn’t Tony. The thing that hurt Bucky the most, was Steve’s constant need to _fix_ everything.

James Buchanan Barnes was fucking broken, there was no doubt about that. But having Steven Grant Rogers constantly chasing him around with an oversized bottle of Superglue was exhausting; for _both_ of them. Steve just couldn’t let it go, he couldn’t accept that half of Bucky’s pieces were missing and that the shattered remains of the other half were so tiny that there was no hope of reassembling them. Bucky had tried to explain to Steve that he’d hidden those missing pieces himself, shoving them between the blades of the long grass, jamming them behind the Pearl Jam records in the back of Clint’s secret closet of nostalgia, or pounding them deep into the holes he smashed into the fucking walls, but Steve didn’t get it. Bucky didn’t want to walk around in 2017, with a shiny new arm, and a brand new uniform carefully concealing a cracked and distorted version of a ghost underneath. But little Stevie Rogers never walked away from a fight. That’s who James Buchanan Barnes fell in love with after all, and it wasn’t fair of Bucky to want something different now.

“Tell me the truth, Barton. Steve was starting to do okay without me, wasn’t he?”

“No.” Clint answered so quickly that Bucky wasn’t even sure he’d finished asking the question. He pulled down his Terminator shades, so they were perched on the tip of his nose, and stared over the top with his bewildered-dad-stare. “Listen Bucky, we’re in a fucking nightmare right now...you’re completely accurate in that assessment...and yeah, you’re smack dab in the middle of it. But buddy, lemme hit you with some truth; this shit is about _way_ more than just _you._ And if you’re thinking that Steve was in any-way-shape-or-form better off before your mangy ass came back, then you _have_ lost your goddamn mind.”

Clint stretched his hand across the cockpit, and patted Bucky lightly on the cheek before ruffling the hair over his face. The touch made Bucky feel calmer and the arguing behind them had finally stopped, and Bucky took the chance to think back to the humble beginning of their epic bromance. Clint Barton had boldly strolled into Bucky’s room in Wakanda, handing him a single boxing glove, and they became instant friends.

It was cute that Clint had managed one solid jab, actually drawing a little blood, before Bucky had knocked him flat on his ass with an unbalanced right hook. There had been a moment of triumph, followed immediately by Bucky crashing awkwardly to the ground, because his dumb ass had over rotated like an idiot who forgot he was short one heavy-ass metal arm. It had been pure comic gold when Clint just wiped at his own bleeding lip, cracked a smile, and chuckled, “Got you good, didn’t I?”

Clint Barton never pulled his punches from day one.

Bucky pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the cockpit and stared down at the open ocean. “Remember in Wakanda, two weeks out of the frozen food section, when I kicked your ass with one arm?”

“In your dreams asshole. You sucker punched me.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to get by,” Bucky laughed. The water looked almost black as hints of it appeared between the puffy clouds, and he couldn’t stop the thought…

He knew it was bullshit to even think it, that Steve would be so fucking angry if he knew things like this even crossed Bucky’s mind, but they did. He couldn’t help but wonder if Steve would turn off autopilot, shove the yoke down as hard as he could, and angle his plane down towards the brilliant white ice, if Bucky left again.

He turned to look at Steve one last time before he pulled up his hood, and the look in his eyes broke Bucky’s heart. They were so stressed, sad, confused, overwhelmed...you name it...and Bucky knew that Steve’s fucked-up puzzle piece version of James Buchanan Barnes would _never_ be enough to make those eyes change.

Steve offered a tight lipped smile and quietly said, “It’s gonna be okay, Buck.”

And Bucky smiled back, because Steve was so damn beautiful and he loved him completely. He always had. That wasn’t the issue. The real problem was so much bigger than friendship, loyalty, chemistry, desire, or history. It was the future.

Bucky simply didn’t know if Steve could ever truly love the man who sank back into his angry hoodie, listening as his broken mind very clearly whispered, “Whatever you need to tell yourself to get by, Stevie.”

*****

.

Bucky’s right shoulder slammed hard against the ground, as he dove to avoid another barrage of 12.7mm caliber bullets from the NSV Soviet Machine Gun they rolled out of the mother fucking garage. Steve had been right (they all were, except Stark) this _mission_ was bullshit from the second that incompetent dick Ross gave the order, to the moment Stark bent over and let Ross shove it dry up his unprepped ass. If they’d dropped Bucky in to scout, like Sam wisely suggested, he would have informed them that the intel was all planted and this was a complete set-up. If they’d done a fly-by, like Clint suggested, they would have instantly seen that the intel was all bullshit and this was a complete set-up. If they’d sent Redwing in to do one teeny-tiny sweep, they would have instantly seen that the intel was all bullshit and this was a complete set-up. If Tony had listened to Steve, or Natasha, or for god’s sake _him_ , they wouldn’t be in the middle of another shitshow caused by the one and only James Buchanan Barnes.

The rundown of the fuck fest went like this: Bucky was stuck on the third floor roof in the center of the horseshoe shaped building, because six pricks with an endless supply of rockets and shoulder mounted RPG-7s kept firing at him every time he tried to move. Since General Ross’ _highly accurate_ intel said there were no high powered weapons on sight (unless you consider _enhanced targets_ high power), Bucky only had a fucking sniper rifle and three short range pistols. Oh, there were no enhanced targets either...just a fuckload of highly trained, pissed off men with the nastiest weaponry the glory days of the Soviet Union had ever produced. Maybe Bucky could pull out his cute little knife and stab the Black Shark assault helicopter on its next pass? Four knives vs. a combat chopper... that should work just fine. Jesus fucking christ.

He was going to stab somebody...somebody whose name was General Ross.

Clint was equally stuck on the two story wing to the southeast, by tanks. Yes, four mother fucking old school Soviet tanks had rolled right out of the building and were blowing the roof to smithereens with autocannons every time Clint dared to move a fucking inch. They weren’t trying to kill him, which was interesting; the explosions were aimed to keep his ass inside a ten foot circle on the collapsing roof. Clint had easily taken out one tank, one of three Russian attack helicopters, and at least fifteen men before the tanks pinned him down. Bucky was also pretty sure he was out of mother fucking arrows. If he could facepalm in the middle of a fucking ambush he would.

Bucky crawled low over the broken concrete and bricks to try to get a clear view of the rest of the team. Steve was still stuck behind the stone archway on the courtyard’s south side, because they were smart enough to use machine guns instead of sending a bunch of fools to try to beat Steve hand to hand. Natasha and Sam were out of Bucky’s sights, and Stark was trying his best to take out the mother fucking tanks from the air, but some kind of sonic weapon kept forcing him to retreat. He’d blown the second helicopter out of the sky, but once they engaged that sonic shit, Tony couldn’t get a lock on the one that was left. Bucky couldn’t get to them, the comms were out, and the bullshit was getting thicker by the second. Even if Clint weren’t stuck on the roof, he couldn’t even make a run for the Quinjet to abort this whole clusterfuck, because _they_ _blew up the mother fucking Quinjet!_ It was obvious, whoever the hell these pricks were, they were here for Bucky. Correction: It was obvious they were here for The Soldier.

The heating unit twenty feet south of Bucky’s position exploded, followed by a sweeping arc of high caliber bullets from yet another heavy machine gun, hitting the concrete one after another and honing in on his location. Fuck! He had no choice but to run towards the edge and dive down a story onto the northern wing. And yeah, somersaulting out of a fall works great when you aren’t landing on exploded hunks of concrete with twisted rebar sticking out everywhere. Bucky grabbed his ribs, where the steel had impacted, then threw himself back against the wall. Now he couldn’t see _anyone_ , and he could feel the broken rib grinding, and he was fucking _livid_.

They were herding him, and they were smart. They knew how the Avengers would approach, they knew where Bucky and Clint would be dug in, they knew how to separate them, and they had weapons geared specifically for the Avenger’s weaknesses. Bucky wouldn’t be fucking surprised if they knew they didn’t have any goddamn backup! Oh, who was he kidding? _Of course_ they knew there was no goddamn backup! If they knew enough to utilize a country like Kazakhstan, that was known for endless human rights violations and their closed off ‘democratic’ government, to lure them here then they _obviously_ knew The Avengers would charge in like the cocky cavalry, ready to save the day with their big dicks swingin’! They also knew enough to go fucking old school. No tech to hack, no overly complicated schemes, just a small army of hard core mercenaries executing a perfectly planned ambush with Soviet era weapons. It was genius really. The Avengers had become overly reliant on technology and Stark’s fancy toys; aim a simple 30mm automatic cannon at the cracks in their overconfident superhero armor, and they could take out the giants one by one. The Avengers’ Achilles’ heel was forgetting how to fight in a real war.

Bucky saw the path they were trying to get him to follow. It ran north through the center of the roof to a cleared area. Most likely to land the chopper. They already took out the Quinjet...if they took out Stark they could land the last Black Shark, no problem. Suddenly, huge chunks of stone and glass rained down as another mortar hit the wall above his head. As Bucky dove to the right to avoid the biggest pieces, he saw it: a narrow shaft running vertically between the L of the buildings to ground level. Access wide enough to spider climb down, partial cover from their primary weapons.

Stark was trying another fly-by using the building as cover, but since Ross’ orders dictated a stealth mission, Tony had the Mark 16. Bucky could admit the cloaking capability was badass, but when you sacrifice the majority of your heavy weaponry _and_ your sonic shielding so you can look cool sneaking around, then find yourself in the middle of heavy combat providing the only air support...well, to put it plainly: your team ends up one-hundred percent fucked. Whatever sonic weapon they were using had a directed beam, and it forced Tony to pull wide at the last minute. He hit the ground hard to the west and Bucky’s brain mentally facepalmed for the second time.

Teams of at least ten were approaching on the roof from the south and northeast, but if Bucky could make the shaft before they blew up the chimney, he had a shot. A shot to get down to Steve. And once he made it that far, they’d figure the rest out together. He heard the man with the rocket launcher on the northern team shift position, and Bucky counted down in his head; approximately five seconds to impact. The Soldier leapt up, and fired off two shots from his pistol, eliminating the men providing cover for the rocket. Four seconds. He slammed his back against the chimney to double check it was clear before making the jump, but as he did time slowed.

From this angle, he had a clear view of Natasha and Sam, kicking ass and taking names as they closed in on Steve’s position. At least ten nameless men, in assorted stages of pain or death, were scattered on the ground all around them. Good.

Stark had finally knocked out the sonic weapon and was leveling the entire team on the southeast corner, despite the suit sustaining obvious repulsor damage. Good. Three seconds to impact.

Steve got clear and threw his shield at a man running towards Natasha. Even from this distance Bucky could tell he was pissed. He’d use his anger to find a way out of this mess. He always did. Good. Two seconds to impact.

Suddenly, the smell of smoke and fire filled Bucky’s lungs, as the chimney exploded behind him. So maybe his count was off a little...fuckin’ sue him. He made the pivot to jump into the shaft, and saw he’d lined himself up perfectly with a projectile coming from a high angle straight towards his chest. Well shit.

His arm instantly raised to deflect, but as pieces of brick and soot fell all around him, he watched in horror as Clint dove across the upper roof and took the hit instead.

Clint took the hit instead…

Bucky couldn’t breathe. He stumbled backwards, his heavy boots trying to stay balanced on the piles of falling rock, before he froze completely. He didn’t make the jump that would take him to Natasha and Sam. He didn’t make the jump that would take him to Steve. He didn’t make the jump that would take him out of this nightmare. Bucky didn’t make the jump, because Clint was already falling. The power of the round had knocked him off the edge of the three story building…

Bucky didn’t make the jump, because they were all doing fine on their own.

Bucky didn’t make the jump, because Steve could make the plan without him.

Bucky didn’t make the jump, because there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He wondered if Clint could feel the snowflakes?

  
_The first time Clint knocked quietly on Bucky’s door in Wakanda, he had a pair of boxing gloves slung over his shoulder and a_

_toothpick hanging out of his mouth. The doctors had deemed Bucky ‘reasonably safe’, and let him back out in the wild to mingle with_

_the falcons and panthers and ants. Bucky wasn’t sure about this decision, or Steve’s complete lack of caution, so he mostly stayed in his_

_room. Bucky knew Clint a little from the airport, from the breakout, but really they didn’t know each other at all._

_So, when the guy shows up and says, “Hey man, wanna spar? I figure_ you _get one glove,_ I _get one glove, we both try not to fall over?_

_This might be my one and only chance to get a swing in before they hook you up with a new appendage. It could be fun,” it’s a welcome_

_relief from wondering if you’re gonna try to kill everyone before dinner._

  
The bricks from the exploding chimney stopped raining down around him, and the smoke and debris dropped low around Bucky’s feet. He stood looking at Clint’s body, lying at an awkward angle on the hard dirt, and felt blood on his hands. There was _always_ blood on his hands. Steve’s shield slammed into several men attempting to converge on Natasha and Sam, as they ran towards Clint’s body.

Clint’s body.

  
_“Jesus Christ, I’m getting too old for this shit.” Clint’s laughter echoed up from the bottom of the waterfall._

                     _“Hey old man, it’s not my fault you decided to belly flop.” Bucky leaned over the edge, his toes sticking out over the slippery rocks_

_and laughed hysterically, because Clint’s jump was so damn far from anything that could be considered graceful. “Steve, what do you_

_give that spectacle?”_

                     _Steve laughed from his own rocky perch, “I’m sad to say it, Barton, but that was a four. And I’m only going that high because_

_of the girly scream.”_

  
Clint didn’t scream this time.

The remainder of the north team was approaching on foot from behind. Assessment: thirty seconds to reach out for Steve. Glancing over his shoulder, he deduced they were poised for capture, not assassination. Decision: twenty-five seconds to look at Steve’s messy blond hair as he ripped off his helmet. Messy hat hair really _was_ Bucky's favorite look on him. The blood on his hands felt so damn heavy.

The Black Widow shoots three men point blank in the face before running towards Clint. Widow. Widow. Widow. Her blood gets added to the weight. She runs through a maze of bodies created with bare hands and bullets, through a red world The Soldier helped build, screaming as she dives towards her _one good thing_.

  
_Bucky wasn’t supposed to see them, but he always saw everything... even when he tried not to. It was the middle_

 _of the_ _night, and he was pretending that slinking around in the dark at four in the morning was a totally normal activity for_

 _a recovering_ _brain-damaged assassin, when he caught her tiny giggle from the kitchen. The lights were off, but Bucky could see_

 _them eating_ _directly from the carton of vanilla ice cream with one silver spoon._

                      _“I like it here you know,” Clint chuckled, “but I know you’re bored.”_

_She popped a huge spoonful into his mouth, maybe a little against his will. “I’m not bored.”_

                     _Clint swallowed and fiddled with the necklace around her throat. ‘It’s okay to be bored Nat. It’s good for you.”_

                     _Bucky watched her tilt her head, so her red hair swung just a little as she whispered against his cheek, “You’re good for me.”_

 

She bends over Clint’s limp body. The Soldier can see everything good pouring out onto the ground around her.

Sam. He trips through the maze in pain. He looks to the sky like he’s praying for someone, anyone, to save them. The face is the same as when The Soldier ripped the steering wheel from his capable hands, the same as when The Soldier tore off his wing and kicked him over the edge, the same as when The Soldier woke up with his arm in a vise and The Captain became _Stevie_ before Sam’s bewildered eyes. The face carries a look of loss. The Soldier’s fingertips drip with it.

Tony...

Fifteen seconds to capture attempt.

Tony Stark would be better off if Captain America had never charged in to rescue Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes the first time. Wouldn’t all the families of The Soldier’s dead? Wouldn’t the dead themselves?

Ten seconds to capture attempt.

Little Stevie Rogers. Little Stevie Rogers desperately lifts Clint’s body towards him and shouts orders that nobody hears. Steve was doing okay before the shattered remains of James Buchanan Barnes crawled back from the dead...before Bucky selfishly made him _Stevie_ again. Steve Rogers’ blood was the heaviest of all.

Five seconds.

Bucky turned to face the eight men, approaching from the north with guns drawn. He couldn’t see the red braid, but he could feel what it meant. He’d told himself he was giving something back to Steve when he’d held out his wrist for that red licorice cotton, but he wasn’t. By letting him back in, by letting them _all_ in, Bucky was taking more away than he could possibly give in return. Because that’s what _Bucky_ did best... take things away.

The Soldier kills two men on the far left with his pistol, then two on the right with his knives. Maybe it was habit to fight...to always come back?

  
_“I don’t know if I can do this to him again, Clint.” Bucky said as he swung in the hammock. He knew from Steve’s bumbling the_

 _last few_ _days that the sap was about to burst. “I don’t know if I can hurt him any more.”_

_Clint threw a stick, with perfect accuracy, right at Bucky’s temple. “Dude! You two are the most overdramatic chicken shit_

_dumbasses._ _You love him. He loves the shit out of you. Just be happy. Simple.”_

 

It was in Bucky’s nature to survive. To endure. To suffer.

“You killed them all,” the man in the center screams, as The Soldier snaps another neck. The sound the bones make as The Soldier cracks them in half, make Bucky blink. The Soldier kills, while Bucky gets lost in the image of his most recent victim, lying limp in the arms of his next…

 

_“Are you happy Clint?” Bucky asked, as he pushed the hammock higher with a dangling foot. Clint’s messy hair was sticking_

_up_ _in all directions_ _as he_ _stared into the trees._

_“Yeah man, I’ve got everything I could want in life. I don’t necessarily think she and I are in the right business for a_

_Norman Rockwell painting,_ _but we_ _make do.”_

 

 “What did you say?” The Soldier shoves the man to the ground and presses a boot hard against the sternum. Bucky had to shake his head to clear it. “What did you say?”

The comms crackled back to life in Bucky’s ear with a painful static whine. “...ucky, report! What’s your location? Bucky?” It was Steve, and he could hear in his voice that it was all true...Bucky was slowly killing them all.

“You’ll pay for all you’ve done," the man spit.

“C’mon Buck...report...goddammit…”

“You will pay!”

“...Tony shut up!...I don’t know...Buck, where are you?”

  
_“I did what you said, Clint.” Bucky threw a perfect spiral with his new arm, and Clint dove to catch it._

_“What? Avoided jerking off with the new hand?” Clint landed the pass right in Bucky’s sweet spot._

_“No, that was the first thing I did when they got the grip right.”_

                     _“Ha, ha, good one. Seriously, what?”_

_Bucky looked down at the three red strings tied tightly around his wrist  and said, “I let Stevie back in.”_

 

“I _should_ pay,” Bucky said quietly, glancing down at the tattered braid around his wrist. The Soldier lunges forward and kills the last men standing, then aims his gun at the final man’s heart. “I _should,_ but I never do.”

Maybe it was Steve screaming in his ear, maybe it was Clint’s laughter echoing through his mind, maybe it was the man on the ground offering up a penance that his conditioning wouldn’t let him accept, but as his metal finger started to squeeze the trigger, a long needle slipped into the side of Bucky’s neck.

A fucking hypodermic needle that The Winter Soldier wouldn’t have allowed to get within thirty feet of him!

But this was James Buchanan Barnes we’re talking about here, and that’s what Sergeant Barnes of the 107th, does best... gets captured…fucks things up...gets people killed...puts everyone in danger trying to save him...

Bucky saw Clint’s face as he felt himself going numb from his heart outwards…

And Steve’s…

Maybe he deserved it…

He deserved...for blood...all this blood...on hands...his hands...

*****

 

The floor was cold and hard. It was always cold and hard. Was there ever a time when it wasn’t? Bucky sucked in a painful breath, unsticking his blood covered lips from the concrete in the process, and thought _home_.

He didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t need to. He knew where he was, he knew who he was, and there was no reason to look any fucking further. He was James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th, and he was right where he should’ve been all along. Where Steve should’ve left him.

Bucky shifted his position to the one Clint landed in when his body slammed into the dirt. He rotated his right leg so the knee joint threatened to pop, and tried to hold it there, but his toes kept slipping. Unlike Clint’s boot in the dirt, Bucky’s foot was bare and wet, so he pushed it harder, digging in his toenails like claws and forcing them to stay in place. He slid his flesh arm out straight before slamming it hard on the floor. When Clint landed, his humerus snapped at a seventy degree angle, so Bucky _should_ slam down his own fucking arm until the break matched perfectly. It _was_ time to pay after all. But even if Bucky snapped his bones and bent them at the same nauseating angle, one very important difference would remain. Bucky was still breathing. Bucky _always_ kept on breathing...

Ice cold water began to flow out of something, pouring across the floor and quickly soaking his pants. They were the only article of clothing left on him, and Bucky thought that was generous.

“On your feet!”

It was an intercom. Smart.

He held his position; as unmoving as Clint in the center of Bucky’s nuclear explosion. The water pressure increased, and the level rose high enough to start lapping at his nostrils.

“You will pay! On your feet!” The man sounded enraged. The Soldier would exploit that.

Action Deferred.

Bucky cracked his eyes, then turned his head to the side just enough to see the source of the water. Metal pipe, four inch diameter, welded flush to the metal wall, ten rivets, small imperfection in the seam at six o’clock. The Soldier would use his metal fingers to pierce through the imperfection and pull the entire pipe out of the wall.

Action Deferred.

“Now!”

He heard it before he felt it; the electricity zinging through the walls before the current connected with the water. It hit him hard enough that his body snapped backwards as all of his muscles went stiff; strong enough to burn him, almost strong enough to stop his heart. As his body sizzled, he took note of where the wires emerged from the wall. The Soldier would remove joint thirteen from the metal arm and use it to short-circuit the entire system.

Action Deferred.

His tongue was bleeding from where he’d bitten it and the seam of the arm was smoking; Bucky could smell it as he dragged himself to his feet. Whoever they were, they hadn’t made any attempt to restrain or disable the arm. Not smart. The Soldier would use the arm to punch indentations in the concrete walls, creating handholds to reach the control room, then smash in their skulls before the finger could push the button to shock him again.

But The Soldier wasn’t in charge anymore, was he?

Action Deferred.

The space was obviously designed to ‘hold him’. Repurposed nuclear missile silo, most likely Russian. Newly constructed interior walls; octagon made with metal and concrete. Nine story ceiling with cameras angled down from forty feet on seven sides. Bulletproof rectangular window at thirty feet on wall eight. Large exhaust fan at top. Four small holes at knee level on all eight walls. Obvious plan to gas The Soldier before gaining access through reinforced steel blast door. The Soldier would hold his breath and use the arm to smash the concrete around the emergency release, pulling the two-thousand pound door open during their first attempt.

Action Deferred.

One large drain in the center of the floor. The Soldier would...oh, what does it fucking matter? Bucky wasn’t gonna let The Soldier do shit. The Soldier didn’t do shit to save Clint, now did he? So fair was fucking fair.

Suddenly, a projection illuminated his body and spilled onto the walls behind him. Bucky turned around, and everything became perfectly clear. On the wall, in slightly vibrating bold white letters, were words proving that he was right where he belonged.

“Read it!” the voice shouted. The accent was Russian, but it could have been Columbian, or English, or even an ancient Brooklyn drawl...Bucky would answer to all of them. Penance was penance, no matter who handed you the whip.

Bucky pulled in a deep breath, the smell from his arm lingering on his tongue, and placed his hands palm side up as an offering. The Russian screamed, “We want to hear you say each word!”

 

_Steve charging through the schoolyard?...the vacant lot?...after Bobby Callahan, running towards two black eyes and a destroyed_

_sketchbook, all because Bobby Callahan had called Bucky a dirty faggot._

 

“We won’t ask again! Now!”

_Steve giving the red rose...or was it pink...that he’d bought for Sarah’s grave to Bucky, so he’d have something to give to Becca...or his mother?...on her birthday, because he’d spent the last of his paycheck on whiskey after he got his draft papers._

The Soldier would have ripped out the throats of every single one of these men, whoever they were. James Buchanan Barnes would have fought them with everything he had because he was afraid to do anything else, but this time it was Bucky... _just Bucky_...and he was ready to accept what he deserved.

Bucky spoke plainly. His victims deserved respect. “February seventeenth, 1962. The Winter Soldier infiltrates the private residence of Nuclear Physicist, Mikhail Stoletovto, to assassinate him for his alleged betrayal of Hydra. Mikhail and his wife Galina were sliced ear to ear as they slept, and their son Vasily Stoletovto was stabbed through the eye in the stairwell.”

Bucky remembered him. He remembered all of them. The boy was supposed to be sleeping, not sneaking up the stairs with a handful of oatmeal cookies. He was sixteen-years-old. His younger brother Sergei had stayed in his bed that night.

“Say his name!”

 

_Sixteen-year-old Steve Rogers loved it when Bucky kissed the little dimples on his back._

 

“Vasily Stoletovto.” And then, because Bucky knew, he said, “I’m sorry, Sergei.”

Bucky heard the finger press the button, even through the thick glass three stories up, but he didn’t move. He only thought about the sickening squelch the knife had made as it popped the boy’s eyeball and sunk deep into his brain.

The electricity hit and Bucky fell backwards into the freezing cold water, the acrid smell of The Soldier’s burning flesh filling the air. His last thought before he passed out was, “Finally.”

*****

 

Time. A concept so vague that history’s greatest minds have always spent their precious seconds composing complex theories and hypotheticals. Mathematicians have worn holes in the soles of their shoes pacing back and forth in front of dusty chalkboards, calculating the speed of light and musing about the rays of the past illuminating the faces of the present. Astronomers have spent centuries delving into the mysterious expansion and contraction of the universe, while the majority of humans attribute it all to God, and spend their time trying to figure out how they fit in.

Steve had believed in God once. He’d followed his mother faithfully into church, memorized bible verses full of hope and fear, kneeled and bowed in ways that would please the Lord, and followed the tenets of the good book (minus his love for Bucky, but that was one sin he was willing to commit). He’d continued praying for God’s guidance as he’d moved forward through time, for the soul of his mother, for all the soldiers at war, for Bucky’s safekeeping, and then for his ability to make a real difference. He knew better now.

The manipulation of time by Erskine and Hydra, the holes punched through dimensions by aliens and a Sorcerer Supreme, and the relative simplicity of ice, destroyed Steve’s belief in God. And in this moment, when everything had been ripped away again, Steve almost wished his blind faith remained...so he could curse him.

Steve hadn’t prayed when the few remaining men had thrown Bucky into a chopper and disappeared, he hadn’t made the sign of the the cross when Iron Man had flown Clint’s limp body beyond the horizon, and there were no Hail Marys as he’d waited helplessly in the dirt for Ross to send an extraction team for the three of them that remained. There would be no salvation for Steve as the Apache helicopter carried him away from the bodies and rubble, because the ultimate sacrifice was never his...

Bucky was the one that took on that burden, and Steve just left him.

Even though he was sitting in a chair in the corner of the compound’s command center, Steve felt like he was surrounded by the residual ghost of the bombed out bar in London. The essence of tables and chairs that once held drunk soldiers and beautiful girls, with their hair pinned in spiraling curls, were overturned all around him. And pointless bottles of alcohol rolled with distorted clinks beneath his feet.

The ‘Avengers’ were arguing about what to do next, creating a wall of sound that meant absolutely nothing to Steve. His timeline had shifted backwards and the only thing he could hear was Peggy’s British lilt in his ear. “Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice.”

Steve hadn’t accepted it then, and he wasn’t going to accept it now. _What_ fucking choice?

He watched his teammates, his friends, flitting back and forth with their wild gestures and physical punctuation, and Steve could only see the seconds of time ticking by. Had Bucky’s timeline already reached it’s end? Would the first ray of sunshine that pierced through the window in the morning contain the last remnants of his lifeforce, snuffed out hours ago like an exploding star? It certainly felt like Steve was alone in the dark.

Natasha was pacing between the rows of computers and grasping at straws. Steve wasn’t surprised she was here, even though she _should_ be in the medical wing. But if Bucky and Clint were reversed, Steve would be here too. She sounded so stressed when she asked, “What are we missing, Tony? With the antiquated weaponry, the specialized ammo…”

“The seventy-three dead bodies,” Rhodes interrupted.

“Hey,” Sam snapped. “We did what we had to do! If you’ve got suggestions for how we should’ve handled a perfectly orchestrated ambush, with over ninety violent combatants, two men down, and no backup, I’m all ears.”  

Rhodes shook his head and turned to Tony, the frustration starting to bleed all over his tone as he said, “I still can’t believe there’s been nothing? No communication whatsoever? I don’t understand their objective.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s the usual villainous plan.” Tony rubbed his hands together, then flicked his fingers outwards like he was a magician revealing the white rabbit in the hat. “Buy a handful of carnival tickets and throw The Winter Soldier’s brains back on the tilt-a-whirl, spinning him round and round, until he’s so dizzy that he can’t tell up from down. You know, get him nice and riled up before ordering him to kill a couple hundred people in the fun-house.” Tony was pacing too, and Steve couldn’t stop staring at the mustard he’d spilled down the front of his Rolling Stones t-shirt. It had been there, in a dribbling yellow line, since Sam tried to stuff a ham sandwich down his throat almost three hours ago. It was weird that Tony was wearing a band t-shirt, lately it had been dress shirts and solid colors, and it was weird that he was ignoring the mustard. It had started to turn brown.

Tony was chaotically moving things around on his holographic screens, throwing useless images of this and that around the room; his manic energy sharply contrasting Steve’s stillness. He had the nerve to kept talking about Bucky like it was a joke, when he might already be dead in a ditch…

“I don’t know about you guys,” Tony rambled, “but I’m super pumped to spend another fast-paced Friday night chasing down the fucking The Winter Soldier! It’s been sittin’ pretty at the tippity top of my bucket list...”

“You know damn well, T’Challa’s people made sure that wouldn’t happen again,” Steve interrupted, pressing his head against the wall. There was a tiny nail sticking out, and Steve had purposefully migrated so the sharp end ground against his skull. If only there were seven nails, then he could honor all seven strands of red licorice at the same fucking time.

He couldn’t even yell at Tony anymore. From the second the chopper cleared the building, Steve’s voice had followed a slow decrescendo, the volume decreasing with every hour and every useless lead. What had started as a panicked scream, had grown quieter and quieter, and now Steve couldn’t do anything but speak with no inflection at all. “And you know, _Bucky_ never would have stayed out of cryo if he wasn’t absolutely positive they broke the programming.”

“Do I, Steve? Do I know that?” Tony marched through the floating schematic FRIDAY was projecting and wisely stopped five feet in front of Steve, just out of arm’s reach. “What I _do_ know is that I spent hundreds of hours designing the most complex piece of technology I’ve _ever_ worked on...against my better judgement...then let you attach it to that _liability_ . I _told you_ we needed to put in a tracker, I _told you_ we needed to add a remote disable function, and I _told you_ it was a mistake to blindly trust that everything was always gonna be peachy keen in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood! But, for some reason, _I’m_ the only one who thinks realistically about these things around here. Maybe, it’s because _I’m_ the only one who refuses to put on a conservative cardigan and lace up my red Keds to ride the happy train into the land of puppets and denial. _Why_ do I refuse to drink the Kool-Aid and get on board, you ask? Well, let me fill you in! It’s because I’ve felt first-hand what it’s like to have your life completely obliterated by the _goddamn joints_ of the _goddamn hand_ that I have to keep digging Macaroni and Cheese out of! Just because that ticking time bomb cracks a good joke every once in awhile, and fucks Steve nice and deep with his superhuman cock, doesn’t mean he should be allowed to run around doing whatever the fuck he wants! I blew off that arm for a reason, and it should’ve stayed off!”

Natasha stepped in between them, which was wise. His voice might be quiet and still, but inside Steve was remembering how it felt to impale Tony’s chest with the shield, and how it would have felt if he hadn’t held back. It scared him.

As Steve bit down on his rage, Natasha sternly said, “Tony, I don’t think that’s what this is about.”

“She’s right.” Sam took his position in front of Steve, classic divide and deflect technique, and stated the facts. “We’ve been thinking about this all wrong. You heard it over Bucky’s comm just like we did, Tony. That guy said, ‘you will pay.’ Pretty sure he said that to Bucky, which means we need to adjust our thinking.”

Rhodes lowered himself carefully into a chair and sighed. “So, we’re looking at a rescue operation?”

“I feel like an idiot just realizing this now, but think about it. We know the tranquilizer was formulated for Bucky, simply by the fact that it almost killed Clint, and Dr. Cho’s analysis just confirmed that assumption.” Sam pulled over a chair and sat next to Steve, group therapy style, before continuing, “That, combined with what we heard...yeah, I’d say we’re looking at a rescue operation.”

“You don’t know that either." Natasha fell onto the couch, like she felt guilty about what she was saying. She probably did. “We have to be realistic and admit that’s best case scenario.”

Steve cringed, and time smashed him backwards against the side of a train speeding towards a tunnel, because it was exactly the same. He left him.

Again.

The crescendo started low in Steve’s belly, and rose quickly as he pushed off the chair. “We shouldn’t have left. We should still be there looking for something...anything! You should have flown after the chopper, Tony! I don’t care how much you hate him, he’s part of the team, and you shouldn’t have let them just fly away!”

“And what, Steve? Leave Barton lying there on a wing and a prayer? I had no choice but to fly him out of there immediately! We were in the middle of nowhere, and in case you forgot, we had nothing to transport him in! We had exactly three options: a blown up plane, let him die in that fucking courtyard, or the suit! The suit that I piloted to a secure hospital with two damaged repulsors, at sixty percent power, for two hours, _while_ carrying a completely unconscious man under one arm! Me! I did that! And I’m pretty sure the fact that we aren’t all dressed in black and picking out a coffin for Barton’s funeral right now, means that I made the right goddamn decision!”

“He’s right, Steve.” Sam pointed at another chair and Tony actually sat down. “Transporting Clint was first priority, and I know it hurts to admit it, but Bucky would agree.”

“You know I did a full sweep before the extraction team finally got there.” Natasha laid her hand on his shoulder and told him what he already knew. “There were no direct leads.”

“And T’Challa’s team touched down three hours ago, they’re sweeping the area and analyzing the dead guys. They’re gonna find something.” Sam was trying to sound comforting, telling him a _another_ bunch of shit that Steve already knew. It was ridiculous! And useless! Why the fuck were they all sitting in a circle trying to comfort him, or whatever the fuck Tony was doing, when they should be working their asses off to find Bucky!?

“No, they aren’t!” Steve wrapped his fingers around the back of the chair, because that was the last straw. The crescendo reached it’s climax and he screamed, “They knew _every move_ we were going to make, before we even made it! They knew _exactly_ how to get to Bucky, and how to make _sure_ we couldn’t stop them. And even if Barton _hadn’t_ gotten hurt, I’m not convinced they wouldn’t have made us look like incompetent idiots and taken Bucky anyway! We shouldn’t have left...”

“We can do more to find him _here_ ,” Rhodes interrupted.

“Like what!? What are we doing? Yelling at each other, wasting precious time trying to make me feel better, and staring at a bunch of screens full of nothing!? We’re standing in a room full of bells and whistles that are doing _nothing_ to get Bucky back! He’s been gone _sixteen_ _hours_ , and it’s all because of Ross and his bullshit intel! I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in on the whole thing! Use The Winter Soldier to save everyone’s ass when you’ve run out of options, then get rid of him after he’s served his purpose. Maybe _that’s_ what we’re missing?” Steve felt the plastic starting to crack under his fingers as he realized the depth of Tony’s deception. “Did you cozy up to Ross to get ‘The Liability’ out of the picture, Tony? Did you do this!? _You_ were the one who was dead set on running into that clusterfuck full steam ahead, even though everyone else said it was questionable. _You_ were the one who didn’t want to wait for Wanda. _You_ were the one who shot down every idea! And _you_ were the one who told Bucky to take position on that roof!”

“You actually think I’m capable of something like that!?” Tony was biting the inside of his cheek so hard that Steve wondered if blood was going to start pouring out the corners.

“Yeah, Tony. I do!” Steve growled, before lifting the chair and slamming it back down to punctuate his point. Three wheels snapped off and rolled into the space between them, and Steve let go; he unleashed the words he’d been caging ever since that godawful day in Siberia. “I think you’re a bitter angry drunk, who’d do _anything_ to get Bucky out of the picture; to get him out of _my_ life! Because no matter how much good Bucky does, you’ll _never_ see him as anything other than The Winter Soldier!”

The chair flew across the room in a brutal arc, taking out a bank of computers and shattering against the far wall, before Steve even realized it had left his hand.The look of shock on everyone else’s faces said they hadn’t expected it either. Tony was the only one who seemed unfazed, and he leapt to his feet to scream right back. “Damn right, I won’t!”

“Woah, okay. That’s enough.” Sam moved beyond his attempts to get them to sit down like good boys, and right into pulling Steve towards the door. “We need to take some deep breaths and…”

“Sorry to interrupt, boss, but we have an incoming video feed attempting to override my firewalls on a secure line. I can’t pinpoint the source, but I think you need to see this.” FRIDAY sounded worried, and Steve figured this was it; this was the moment where his world would shake for the final time, cracking open to swallow him whole. There wouldn’t be a miraculous save, an improbable rescue, or another middle finger to God or the Devil. This would be the time that Bucky was really gone. This was the end.

“Yeah FRIDAY, start running a trace and put it on screens, and fuck you, Steve.” Tony moved towards the big screen in the center of the room, but didn’t stop yelling. “You show more of your true colors every goddamn day, and they sure as hell aren’t red, white and blue. I should’ve painted that fucking shield black, before I stupidly gave it back to you; jet black, with ‘Bucky Barnes’ Bitch’ embossed smack dab in the center, since that seems to be your new mantra these days. I should…”

Tony stopped when the image appeared on the dozens of screens.

They all stopped...and Steve’s heart seized.

It was a wrinkled white piece of paper shoved in front of a shaky camera. Gnarled fingers were wrapped so tightly around the edges that it was bending inwards, and the words ‘you will pay’ were scrawled across it in heavy black lines. There was no audio, but the lines on the vibrating paper sounded like death. Steve held his breath, because it sounded exactly like the seconds when he couldn’t reach Bucky’s hand…

The paper was ripped out of view, and Steve was confronted with a bird’s eye view of a water covered octagon.

“Jesus,” somebody whispered, but all Steve heard was the whistle of a train.

“Oh my god.” Someone touched his arm, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. “Steve...”

And Steve just stared. What else could he do?

 

_“Ya know, Stevie, one of these days I’m not gonna be this handsome, as difficult as that is to believe,” Bucky chuckled, dodging a fire escape ladder that had slipped down on it’s rails. “You sure you’re gonna still love me when my face isn’t this dashing?”_

 

Tears started rolling down Steve’s face because he was looking at his beautiful boy, with the toothy grin and the sunshine skin, slipping out of his grasp all over again.

Bucky was lying there, flat on his back in the center of some kind of cell. His arms were spread wide by thick metal chains pulling his wrists towards massive anchors on the walls. His bare feet were locked together with metal cuffs and he was surrounded by dark water.

 

_“How the hell did you talk me into jumping in this lake, Steve! Are you seeing this water? It’s black!” Bucky smiled and splashed water into Steve’s face. “I’m tellin’ Peggy that you’re using those new muscles for evil, gettin’ my ass to skinny dip with you in the middle of a fucking warzone! Those pecs are the only reason I’m about to have my dick bitten off by Nessie!”_

 

Steve’s head started swimming and he stumbled backwards.

The video zoomed, going in and out of focus as its eye descended towards the only hell Steve feared. There was so much blood, and Steve didn’t have enough hands to stop it. He raised his hands in front of his eyes, spreading his fingers wide to look at his everything through the spaces. His hands were useless. They never stopped anything.

Blood was pouring from fresh wounds on Bucky’s beautiful face, dripping from the corner of his mouth and staining his lips red. But there was no sugar, no red vines, no candy kisses causing the color. Just the blood.

He was staring at nothing with bloodshot eyes, but Steve recognized them instantly. They were _Bucky’s_ eyes.

 

_“Hey Steve,” Bucky snickered, as he fussed with his hair in the bathroom mirror. “Trent Reznor used to wear lots of eyeliner, and I’ve gotta be honest, I think it’s pretty badass. You think I should try it out? I mean, I’ve already got the hair, and I think my eyes are begging for it.”_

 

The frame got tighter and tighter, and Steve knew the message was being delivered just for him.

“Steve, let’s leave the room. Let the rest of us…” Sam tried to step in front of him, to block the view, but it was on endless screens in four directions. There was no escaping it. He could never unsee it.

“FRIDAY…?” Tony sounded calm, which seemed odd considering the room was caving in around them.

“Working on it, boss.”

He felt Natasha’s finger touch his hand, which was clenched so tightly that blood was starting to drip from the nails digging into his palm. “Steve,” she whispered, “c’mon, you shouldn’t see this.”

The motion stopped, creating a composition where Steve could no longer see Bucky’s eyes.

“I can’t see his eyes…” Steve said to no one.

But he could see Bucky’s nose, and his perfect cupid bow lips, and the dimpled chin that never changed, and they were all covered in blood. Someone had made Bucky bleed, and Steve...he had no idea what to do. He just got him back! He just got Bucky back, and now he was chained in a place he didn’t belong, with no way to return to the place he never should have left…

 

_“Hell, no! The little guy from Brooklyn that was too dumb not to run away from a fight. I’m following him.”_

 

Tendrils of chocolate brown hair were floating in the water, surrounding Bucky like a crooked halo, and Steve could see how hard the restraints were pulling on Bucky’s shoulders. The pressure was opening a visible gap between metal and skin, exposing layers of fat and muscle, and Steve wanted to throw up. The screens showed the planes of Bucky’s naked torso, illuminating his chest and stomach, and when Steve’s brain finally processed the image, he felt the wind whipping through his hair as the bitter ice rose up.

Sharp cuts, in aggressive angular lines, were ripped through Bucky’s newly grown chest hair and across the ribs Steve had peppered with kisses just days before. But now, the soft skin that rode over Bucky’s belly was sliced and torn, and blood was clouding the water from a weeping stab wound that punctuated the end of it all.

Even with trails of blood running from the cuts and dripping into the water lapping at Bucky’s side, the message carved into the precious skin of Steve’s true north was completely clear. And whether it was a message from the captors, with no underlying subtext, or a message carved directly into Bucky’s flesh by the hand of God himself, Steve _knew_ it was written just for him.

 

It flickered in black and white.

It flickered as the blood poured forth,

no amount of vinegar wine able to replenish the loss.

The inevitable words that had been coming for Steve

since the day he let Bucky fall.  

 

Carved into the martyr Steve had dropped a thousand times,

were three simple words...

 

‘You will pay’

  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang  
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**THURSDAY 9 PM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 11**

The man with the jagged scar running across his face kicked Bucky in the ribs to wake him up. Bucky’s brain kept wanting to call him Scarface (even though he was Russian and looked nothing like Al Pacino), but the scar made the name irresistible. But it would be _wrong_ to call him that. This was _Sergei Stoletovto,_ and The Soldier had robbed him of too much already; Bucky wouldn’t rob him of his name as well. _Sergei_ kicked him repeatedly in the ribs to wake him up, and because The Soldier had murdered his family, Bucky let him.

The gas they were using was fucking strong, and Bucky didn’t understand where he was at first (or why half of his toenails were missing), but it all came rushing back when the man with the white hair stabbed another sedative (obviously designed for a t-rex) into his ass. It wasn’t enough to knock him out again, but damn, did shit start spinning. Faces, faces, faces. Fuck, he really needed to learn his victims’ names, but there were so many of them swimming around the cell and it was hard to keep track. Silver Hair and the young one with the black eye pulled Bucky to his feet, as the stern looking woman handed Scarface...stop it... _Sergei_ a bowie knife.

Clint had made everyone watch ‘Scarface’ in Wakanda, while he’d run around the room yelling out the lines with Al Pacino. His accent hadn’t been half bad. Steve had popped bowls of buttery fresh popcorn that he’d used as an excuse to feed Bucky by hand, and Natasha had played with Bucky’s hair, braiding, twisting and making him so sleepy, and Clint...was dead.

Suddenly, Silver Hair stomped his boot onto Bucky’s bleeding toes, and the projection appeared on the wall again. If he kept on smashing Bucky’s toes, maybe the rest of his nails would just fall off? Better to have all ten missing for consistency, right?

Pain before they wanted him to read. Pain to prove their point. They liked telling The Soldier to read things, facts about the unforgivable shit he’d done, but The Soldier was a stubborn bastard who refused to participate in storytime. He didn’t give two shits about all the people he’d killed, he didn’t know he was supposed to; but Bucky did. It fucking _destroyed_ him on a daily basis, so he did the right thing whenever the white letters appeared on the walls.

The sedative was kicking in, and his skin felt like it was crawling with spiders as the room tipped to the left. Silver hair was holding him up...maybe the one with the beard too?... he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. There was only Sergei and the tip of his knife pressing into the skin on Bucky’s bare chest.

“My father felt the tip of your knife as you sliced him ear to ear. Now, _you_ will see how the sharp end of _my_ blade feels as I rip you apart!”

Bucky was mesmerized when letters began appearing in jagged slices; first there was a ‘Y’, then an ‘O’, and finally a viciously curved ‘U’. The blood pouring out of the words was turning Bucky into Alphabet Tomato soup; the word ‘you’ floating in the middle of a thick red broth. Bucky laughed, because the knife was digging, digging, digging, and revealing what had always been underneath. It looked right on him; a perfect fit.

“Hey!” Sergei growled. “Read the wall!”

And Bucky read each word with shame...because he’d done it...he’d done all of it. The room spiraled sideways as the truth came out. “October 5, 1978. The Winter Soldier murders Judge Harold Leonard before he can deliver a guilty verdict in the trial of Hydra supporter, Senator Patrick M. McTaggart. Harold Leonard was stabbed through the heart in his car before he could even turn the key.”

Another word was aggressively dug into the center of his chest, and Sergei drove the point home. “The man behind you is Dante Leonard,” he snarled, “Harold Leonard’s son. Do you understand? I do this for his father.”

The Winter Soldier had killed a lot of people’s fathers…

A new word grew across his abdomen, bumping over the muscles with their soupy mess. Bucky was glad Silver Hair had a name now; it made the pain mean more. Dante Leonard. Bucky didn’t know Harold Leonard had been a father, that information hadn’t been critical to The Winter Soldier’s mission.

His head fell forward as Bucky read his upside-down noodles. He said ‘pay’, which was fucking funny. Pay with what? He’d payed for Stevie’s candy by letting an old lady stare at his ass. He’d payed for Stevie’s medicine by doing whatever the gangsters asked. He’d payed for his new arm with...oh yeah, he hadn’t payed for his new arm... just like he hadn’t payed for taking Dante’s father away from him. He hadn’t payed for anything The Soldier had done...and his bill was fucking overdue. When the blade reached deep down into his abdominal muscles, Bucky wondered if money was gonna start pouring out with the soup? A quarter for killing your mom, a nickel for stabbing your brother, a dime for running over your best friend with a motorcycle, a penny for assassinating your parents on a dark country road... Bucky looked up to accept what he deserved, to try and pay his bill with pain, and Tony Stark was carefully carving the last slice of the letter ‘Y’.  

_“For Howard”,_ Tony hissed against Bucky’s cheek, pushing the end of the knife straight into his side; a sharp period at the bottom of the letter ‘Y’.

“You should twist it, Tony,” Bucky mumbled. Meaning it. Needing it.

_“Oh yeah? You mean like this?”_ It jammed through the muscle and rotated, and pennies poured out all over their feet, jingling and bouncing all around Bucky’s broken toes. Meaningless pennies doing nothing, because no amount of Bucky’s blood could ever make up for what he’d done. God it was hard to look at Tony, his brown eyes looked so much like Howard’s, and right now he looked exactly the same as when Howard had questioned “Sergeant Barnes?” before The Soldier had bashed in his face. Sergeant Barnes had really liked Howard; he’d given Steve his shield...to keep him safe. Tony’s breath felt heavy on Bucky’s cheek when he snarled, _“For my mom_.”

When the hilt jammed against Bucky’s skin, he felt the words morphing into what they were supposed to say all along; changing into something he’d never had the strength to write himself. As Tony yanked out the knife, a ribbon of soup and alphabet letters flew through the air, and Sam and Clint finally released Bucky’s arms. The sedative sucked him backwards and the room folded inwards, Tony’s face dissolving in a terrifying trail right in front of Bucky’s eyes.

When Sergei punched him in the sternum, his fist connecting with the words and making the letters sink into Bucky where they belonged, he lost his balance and started to fall.

Bucky had only ever had the strength to carve ‘you _should_ pay’ into his body, but Tony made it right. Tony Stark had finally transformed ‘ _should_ ’ to ‘ _will_ ’, and Bucky felt at peace…

Landing flat on his back, the water splashed over him like a meaningless baptism, and it became clear: a thousand falls towards absolution could never make up for everything he’d done. Never.

 

**FRIDAY 9 AM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 23/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 7**

They’d brought in a table. There was _always_ a table. It was cold stainless steel (nothing new there) and they were shocking him with an intermittent current. Just enough to tighten his muscles, keep him awake, and drive him insane. Bucky couldn’t keep track of the time, but it felt like a day, maybe less, maybe more? Typical torture strategy: disorientation and no fucking sleep; _and_ they were cranking it up a notch by making them unevenly spaced, giving his brain the chance to hope they were stopping, letting his brainwaves _just_ touch REM, before zapping him back to consciousness. Awake. Awake. drift. Awake. drift. Awake. Awake. Bucky hadn’t slept since they’d thrown him in this cell, unless he counted the times he’d been knocked out by the gas or passed out from the pain. Maybe he _should_ count those minutes; they were more than he deserved.

The chains they’d wrapped around the underside of the table were digging into the wounds on Bucky’s chest, and he could see the blood drying on the links. They’d looped a shit-load around him head to toe, and if it didn’t hurt so fucking bad, Bucky would be cracking up. Like, these fuckers had hauled in twelve chains, worked as a team to feed them over and under the table and wrap him up real tight, pursed their lips while they thought about what The Winter Soldier was really capable of, then added ten more just to be safe. Two _more_ were wrapped around his wrists, stretching his arms over his head and connecting them to anchors on the wall. Of course, these two were hooked up to the electricity. It _hurt_ like a son-of-a-bitch because the goddamn arm was separating; Bucky could feel it pulling on his fucking spine. But he didn’t break them (even though he could), instead he flexed his chest muscles so the chains pulled even harder. He didn’t deserve this arm. Tony had never wanted him to have it, and so he shouldn’t.

The words were healing over already, and by the looks of the scabs and the pink skin starting to fold over the edges, Bucky guessed ten, maybe eleven, hours had passed. He could feel bruises, cuts, burns, and slices, that weren’t there before Tony had stabbed him in the side...but he had no clue how any of them had gotten there. Even though his cells were racing to fill in the letters, Bucky could still feel them there. He’d _always_ felt them there...before the man doing the carving was even a twinkle in his daddy’s saggy ball sack. They were almost the same goddamn lines Bucky’d been carving into his own mind since he’d come back.

When Steve had given Bucky his first real hug since the last day he’d been Sergeant Barnes, not hesitating to wrap his strong arms around the metal shoulder, Bucky’d been digging. When Clint had shown him how to order shit off the internet, and he’d pretended he was ‘Bucky Reznor’ for the first time, he’d been digging. Even when Steve had made love to him in Wakanda for the first time, touching Bucky’s new body with nothing but love, he’d been digging those words into his brain matter with the tip of his own knife.

It was totally fucked up, no doubt, but _Bucky_ was fucked up; and the only other guy who treated him like maybe _someday_ he could be okay (besides Steve, who _pretended_ he was okay already) was dead because of him. Fucked-up Bucky had fucked up, and Clint _died_. No getting around that. So when Sergei had started to slice, Bucky had leaned into the goddamn blade...

Now, Bucky was chained to a table trying to remember the woman standing by his feet. She was smacking something over and over into her palm...oh, now he remembered...the cattle prod. The Soldier had murdered her sister, Mary Matthews, when she’d gotten crushed by a bus during his hunt for Captain America in Washington, DC. Mary Matthews was _collateral damage_ and that wasn’t something The Soldier had been programmed to worry about. Susan Matthews had pulled out a chunk of Bucky’s hair before jamming the cattle prod against all of his soft parts, and now he was waiting waiting waiting for her to do it again. Maybe she was waiting for Bucky’s heart rate to return to normal? They’d already had to defibrillate him once.

While he waited waited waited, Bucky wondered why Stark hadn’t just ended it? If he’d pushed the knife diagonally up four inches he could’ve easily pierced Bucky’s heart.

But the shock never came, because the blast door groaned open and in waltzed Tony Stark with an even bigger knife. There were lots of people in the cell now. It was hard to keep track of them all. Bucky shook his head to try to clear it but everything was so fuzzy. He just wanted to tell Tony it was okay; that Bucky understood what he had to do and why he needed to do it, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right.

Tony smiled down at him through his perfect goatee (he really did look like Howard) then wrapped his hands around Bucky’s flesh arm. “This is for Mary.”

Bucky screamed as his shoulder dislocated and just hung there, out of joint and swinging against the chains. The last time his shoulder had been out of its socket, Captain America had made it pop; pop like popcorn, popping into his mouth while they watched Tony Montana pop pop popping his machine gun. Why hadn’t The Captain just killed him on that Helicarrier? Dislocating the arm had strategically been the wrong decision. The Soldier didn’t understand.

Tony flipped the knife up and down, catching it one handed, as he leaned against the wall. The projection lit up his stupid vest. Who told him vests were cool?

_“You sorry I missed?”_ Tony scratched the back of his head, as he let the silver blade rotate an extra time before making the catch.

“No, Tony,” Bucky slurred. “That’s why I’m here. I’m _supposed_ to be here. I deserve it. Next time go an inch to the left. You almost hit my liver.”

Awake, Awake, Awake, drift, Awake, Awake…

_“Oh, aren’t you helpful today. So tell me then, where should I stab you for killing Clint? Hmm? Personally, I think he’d want me to aim right for the nuts.”_

“I’d bleed out, Stark. Jesus christ, if you want to punish me, study your fucking anatomy.”

drift, Awake, drift drift drift...

 

**FRIDAY 10PM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 31/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 20**

Awake!

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The drugs were wearing off, and his shoulder still felt strange even though Dante had put it back in its socket, and something was wrong with his side where the knife went in...Tony’s knife...jesus christ. He couldn’t orient himself, and he was fucking hallucinating. What the hell was he doing? Why the hell was he letting these people do this to him!? Suddenly, someone dropped a cloth over his nose and mouth, and fuck, it was waterboarding. They were about to fucking waterboard him! Bucky’s heart started racing, because Hydra had...Hydra…

Drops of icy water started falling onto his face from an opening in the ceiling, and he needed to get off this table right now and get the fuck outta here because Hydra had... The table jerked, tilting head down, so each drop started running up his nose and into his eyes, and… he had to get out, he couldn’t do waterboarding. Rumlow always… he had to get back to Steve...oh fuck, _Steve_. Bucky started struggling against the chains and blinding pain shot through both shoulders. He had to get back to Steve, and to Clint…

_Clint took the hit instead._

Clint was dead.

He instantly stopped struggling, because Clint... the Soldier’s panic had almost made Bucky forget. But the Soldier never knew Clint. The Soldier didn’t understand. The Soldier was afraid of the water, but Bucky made him sit still.

The drips were choking him, and the fabric started bending into his open mouth whenever he desperately tried to find some air, but he didn’t move. Even though Steve would tell him he should. Even though The Soldier told him he could. Shoulda, woulda, coulda...not this time. He was right where he was supposed to be. His chest said ‘ _will’_ . Bucky had the will to just sit still. You will pay. You _will_.

They were flashing his crimes in a constant pattern now, angling the projector lower, and pulling back the drenched fabric just enough so he could read each upside-down word as he drowned.

‘November 22, 1963. The Winter Soldier assassinates the thirty-fifth President of the United States of America, John F. Kennedy, so Hydra can influence a massive escalation in The Vietnam War. SGT Donald H. Logue, CPL George E. Napier, PFC Edgar N. King...

There were so many names. Kennedy had been The Soldier’s bloodiest crime. How many young men died in those jungles because of his perfect shot in Dallas? Electricity screamed up his metal arm and Bucky bit his tongue. Will. Just sit still still still.

“Read it!”

James Buchanan Barnes could read. He was a good boy like that. He’d done his lessons in school, only cheating off Stevie Rogers’ paper when he’d forgotten...something...but he could recite everything The Soldier did without copying _anybody_ else’s homework. The Soldier was an _expert_ in the subject of murder... “March 4, 1976,” Bucky stuttered, as his tongue bled down the back of his throat. “The Winter Soldier assassinates the former President of Bolivia, Juan Jesus Torres, to assist Hydra with the establishment of a new regime to support their South American interests. This action led directly to Colonel James Rupert Rhodes losing the use of his legs in the battle at Leipzig Airport.”

The strobe lights started flashing, and the letters started floating off the wall when Susan Matthews slapped him across his face and spit into his mouth. Bucky tried to suck in breaths that would let him scream, but he could only puke words, and letters, and bile, all over himself.

“Wrong! Read it again!” The young one with the black eye demanded as he jerked the chain connected to Bucky’s flesh arm. He could feel the ends of the bones grinding together where it wasn’t quite right, and made him feel so dizzy. His name was Frederic Coderre, and The Soldier had killed his grandfather Theo when he’d impeded one of Hydra’s missions. Frederic had blond hair like Steve...it looked soft and pretty in the strobes...but he was so so so mad at Bucky when he yelled, “I _said_ read it!”

“Date Unknown. The Winter Soldier participates in the involuntary removal and implantation of memories in the Black Widow operative named Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”

“That’s not what it says! Have we broken you already?” Susan threw the fabric back over his face and Bucky instantly started choking. The Soldier was screaming, yelling orders at Bucky in Russian: Throw weight to the left, flip table, break chains during fall, properly relocate shoulder, use chains to strangle and kill them all...but Bucky overrode him. He could do that now.

The cloth was ripped away again, and Clint bent over Bucky’s gurgling mouth to whisper softly in his ear. “Read it right this time, buddy. Tell _everyone_ what you did to me.”

“June 22, 2017. The Winter Soldier fails Clinton Francis Barton. The Soldier’s crimes led The Avengers into an ambush, where Clint Barton was shot, before falling three stories to his death.”

This time when the shock ripped through the table, Bucky could feel his skin starting to stick. Easier to sit still when your skin’s melted to the metal. It’s always about the metal…sit still and take your pill. Still like Clint, still like Rhodey, sit still like Maria in a car on fire.

“January 22, 1942. Stevie Rogers is deceived by James Buchanan Barnes. The liar excitedly tells Stevie that he enlisted in the army because of an altruistic desire to protect his country, but his draft papers were shoved deep in his pocket.”

_“Buck. Hey, hey Buck, look at me.”_ Steve was here! God, he loved Steve. He was so glad when Steve started pulling his big fingers through Bucky’s wet hair. _“It’s not your fault. Nothing’s your fault, baby.”_

He couldn’t even feel the shocks anymore, but he kept on getting stiff as a board...maybe his nerve endings were all burnt off? Bucky looked up at Steve, and he was suddenly so small. He was suspenders, floppy blond hair, and bloody noses. He was beautiful, and he was so damn wrong.

“Stevie,” Bucky coughed, “You should push the button too.”

_“I’ll never do that, sweetheart.” Steve held up an entire cake, decorated with overly thick red roses made with crimson frosting and stabbed with two freshly extinguished candles. The black smoke filled Bucky’s nose as Steve laughed. “Would you like a piece of cake? Wanda made this one with layers of vanilla and a tasty strawberry filling.”_

“I don’t want your fucking cake, Steve!”

The jolt that hit made Bucky’s ears bleed; he could feel the red dripping over his neck and onto the table. Cake and candles, sugar and lies...

_Stevie smiled down at him with pale blue lips, licorice wrapped tightly around his thin neck like a garrotte, and said, “OK, sweetheart. I’ll wrap it up for later. God, you’re so perfect, Buck.”_

“I said, I don’t want it, Steve! Just push the fucking button!” The water was still dripping on his face and running up his nose, but Bucky needed him to _listen!_

Then, _finally_ , Stevie did. Suspenders and black eyes, bloody knuckles and bad decisions, smiled like sugar as he pushed the red button in his hand. When the electricity ripped through Bucky’s body, burning a red circle around his right wrist from the heat of the chain, he choked out the words…

“At least I won’t have to lift any more heavy boxes of Mars Bars for Mrs. Rosie Gold.”   

*****

 

**SATURDAY 1 AM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 39/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 23**

Twenty-three hours staring at this feed, watching god-knows-who doing increasingly god-awful things to The Winter Soldier, and Tony couldn’t stop. He was the asshole slowing down to fifteen-miles-per-hour on the freeway, gawking at the rollover accident in the northbound lanes. He hadn’t stopped being _that_ guy, or slept, since 3 am Thursday when Ross had given FRIDAY a jingle on speed-dial. He didn’t even know what time it was. He barely knew what day it was.

“FRIDAY, what time is it?”

“1 am, boss.”

“So, what’s that? Forty-six hours since I’ve slept?” Tony propped his head up on his hand and knocked his robot-shot-dog onto the floor. He’d brought Astro up to the command center to help him deal with this entire situation, but space dog _wasn’t_ helping, _plus_ he’d drained the bottle of whiskey fifteen minutes ago. That meant Astro had to get off the couch and sleep in his robot-doggy-bed on the floor.

“I believe you have a very good reason for being awake. Sergeant Barnes needs your help.”

He banged his head on the table in front of his screen, and wished a fresh bottle would levitate over to him. New project: build a drone-dog to fetch fresh bottles of whiskey (or whatever poison he felt like at the moment) from the well-stocked bar. Tony would name him Muffit III and they could watch Battlestar Galactica together while he got blasted. Tonight he felt like some Patron Tequila, or even better, some god-awful 190 proof Everclear Vodka to knock him flat on his ass next to Astro, because Tony fucking _hated_ Barnes. Hated him with capital letters, and bold text, and fifty poop emojis thrown over his stupid face.

So, one would think, this fucking snuff video would be like Tony’s own personal version of ‘Saw’. Ready kiddies? It’s time to watch The Winter Soldier getting tortured on the big screen! Step right up, step right up! For only twelve bucks, and the additional cost of an eight dollar bucket of buttery popcorn, you too can watch the man who murdered your parents getting ruthlessly tortured from the comfort of your own personal leather reclining seat!

But it wasn’t like that at all. Tony’s eyeballs felt dry and strained from sitting in the dark, staring endlessly at The Soldier’s eyes. Ever since Zemo had played them like fools and revealed the truth on that grainy video, Tony’s brain had been stuck on a loop. Over and over, he saw those dead eyes as The Winter Soldier strangled the life out of Tony’s helpless mother, and he couldn’t make it stop.

A day in the world of Tony Stark had turned into Groundhog’s Day:

  1. Wake up whenever.
  2. Picture The Soldier bashing in his father’s face.
  3. Drink coffee, and think about tripping Barnes as he walks into the common area.
  4. Picture The Soldier’s hand wrapping around his mother’s neck.
  5. Add a shot of whiskey to coffee.
  6. Hate himself for building Barnes a new arm, as he watches Steve fawn over his little murder puppy.
  7. Throw the fucking coffee in the sink and grab the whole bottle of whiskey.
  8. Pretend he has his shit together enough to run the Avengers. Putting a suit jacket over his nicest Led Zeppelin shirt usually did the trick.
  9. Lock himself in his workshop, and _maybe_ eat something Mama Sam shoves at him.
  10. Build shit.
  11. Add the empty bottle to the rows and rows of empty bottles lined up along the back wall.
  12. Pass out, thinking about how fucking angry he is that Steve Rogers is getting fucked by The Goddamn Winter Soldier under his mother fucking roof!
  13. Repeat.



But the last twenty-three hours had broken the pattern, and Tony felt less like Bill Murray and more like the scum of the earth. The video feed was clear enough that Tony could see the expression in Barnes’ eyes as he allowed himself to be torn apart, and over the course of 1,380 minutes Tony had come to a conclusion that made him feel sick. They weren’t the same dead eyes that had stared blankly into a security camera on December 16th, 1991...they were the eyes of a man who needed help.

And all Tony could do was sit in the dark like a limp dick; useless, powerless, and disappointing. The men in black, who were _way_ more barbaric than Will Smith, were back at it with the water. Every time Barnes passed out, they’d throw him on the floor and pump the cold, putrid water back into the cell. Tony squeezed his temples as it rose around Barnes’ skin, because it was a disgusting, dark reddish brown. Seriously, they couldn’t even give the guy fresh torture water? These people were such sadists that they’d installed a special vat to save the bloody, shitty, piss water, and even added a chiller to get it nice and cold before they pumped it back in. That took some super villain planning; hours and hours of torture meetings with The Joker and Ted Bundy before they even _thought_ about going after Barnes. How long had these assholes been planning this!?

Plus, the water was making Barnes hypothermic: when it got deep enough he’d start to shiver, then turn a lovely shade of blue around the edges. At least Hydra turned his ass into a popsicle lickety-split. Oh, and to make it even worse, the density suggested it was salt water, and they kept increasing the concentration every time they pumped it back in from their little vat of horrors. It meant they could keep shocking Barnes without killing him outright, which was pure evil.

Barnes was becoming so buoyant that he looked like he was floating in the middle of the Dead Sea, without the exceptional health benefits. Tony had the disturbing image of Sergei, the leader of the Droogs, pouring salt all over a slug. With the amount of open wounds, the salt leaching into the gaps had to be dehydrating Barnes from the inside out; but he just floated there, spread-eagled and staring up at nothing, while Tony sat in the dark and felt like a complete asshole.

Twenty-three hours trying to find backdoors to override frustratingly simple technology. If they’d used the internet or any fucking computer to do _anything_ , FRIDAY could have found them in two minutes...twenty max. But they’d been smart enough to pay for their torture party in cash money like Lil Wayne, bribe the government in Kazakhstan in cash money like Drake, and drop off the face of the Earth without using debit _or_ credit. They _knew_ where Tony’d be looking, so they were winning by going Fred Flintstone. _One_ fucking video feed, bounced off the _one_ satellite Tony couldn’t hack (without starting World War III) because of the mother fucking Accords! _One fucking video feed_. Tony was failing, and he could feel his limp dick retracting further and further into his body with every passing hour.

Astro was staring up at him from his awkward pose on the floor, judging Tony with his robot-puppy eyes. “What are you looking at!?”

“Technically boss, I’m not looking at anything in the context…”

“Jesus, FRIDAY, I’m talking to the dog!”

“Technically, the robot canine cannot truly…”

Tony kicked Astro, so his judgemental eyes were facing the wall, and sighed, “FRIDAY, shut-up. Please.”

Twenty-three hours of Sergei Stoletovto, and his merry band of vigilantes, ripping apart The Winter Soldier’s body like a ragdoll and throwing his cotton stuffing all over the goddamn place was brutal, but even worse was watching Barnes ripping apart his own mind. DJ Coderre, the dashing French sadist, who seemed better suited for shaking his ass in a Parisian nightclub than participating in the most villainous revenge plot in the twenty-first century, had helpfully switched on the audio somewhere around hour five; just in time to hear his fat mix of Barnes talking to people who weren’t really there at hour seven. When Barnes had said, “That’s why I’m here. I’m _supposed_ to be here. I deserve it. Next time go an inch to the left. You almost hit my liver.” Tony had been flabbergasted, but Steve... Steve had collapsed in on himself and visibly shrunk three inches.

Oh man, had _that_ brought back a whopper of a memory. Tony’d always thought that Peggy had exaggerated, generously trying to make moody-teenage Tony feel better about his neglectful dear-old dad...but when Steve had started shrinking, Tony realized she’d been one-hundred percent serious. Peggy had pulled him aside after a particularly unbearable dinner party, where ‘The Great and Powerful Captain America’ had been the preferred topic of conversation. As she’d handed him a piece of lemon meringue pie, Peggy had whispered in her wonderfully straightforward way, “Your father likes to remember the good things about Steve; to regale his guests...and his only son...with stories of great heroism and exciting adventures.” She’d given Tony a sad smile, and chuckled, “I think we’re all a little guilty of that. But Tony, I want you to know, your father chooses not to tell the ending of the story, because darkness and despair don’t go well with dessert.”

As Steve’s atoms had continued shrinking more and more with every devastating sentence that had come out of Barnes’ mouth, Tony realized that Peggy had known exactly what she was talking about. A fun story like that would _certainly_ ruin the taste of a hot fudge sundae... even one with heaps of whip cream and a maraschino cherry stuck on top. Wanna clear out a party? Raise your glass, and tell the story of how Captain America had turned into a shell of his former self after James Buchanan Barnes had fallen off that goddamn train. Peggy had always been so wise. Tony wished he’d listened to her more.

At hour twelve, when they’d started burning Barnes with lit cigars, Steve had carried a big monitor to the back corner of the command center. He’d been oblivious to the wires and cords he was dragging across the floor in a tangled trail behind him...even when they’d knocked over _everything_ on a six foot counter along the way. Coffee Maker? Didn’t care. Natasha’s special mug that nobody was allowed to touch? Didn’t care. The entire tray of bagels Chef Aaron had delivered personally? Didn’t care. Even with bagels rolling all over the goddamn floor, Steve had just set down his monitor, parked himself in front of it, then put his back to the entire room. He still hadn’t taken off his stealth suit, and he’d honest to god started to smell. Tony didn’t even know Steve _could_ smell bad...for some reason he thought the serum guaranteed flower-fresh pits all year long...guess not. And there he’d sat, with two poppyseed bagels under his chair and his face six inches from the flickering screen. Tony had kept waiting for somebody else to do _something_ , or to say _something_ , but it had become obvious pretty damn fast that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t have a clue how to handle this incarnation of Steve Rogers. So, they’d let him sit in front of his video screen, watching his boyfriend being tortured, and had awkwardly kept trying to work solutions around him.

At hour thirteen, they’d thoughtfully popped Barnes’ dislocated shoulder back into place before burning his feet with a blowtorch. As the screaming had filled the room, Steve had  pressed his palm over Bucky’s two-dimensional image like he’d been trying to climb through the goddamn screen then had started sobbing. Nobody could get anything done with that going on, so Sam had shaken his head (in the universal signal for ‘you do it’) at Natasha, who’d made the first serious attempt to get Steve out of his corner.

In all the years he’d known her, Tony had _never_ seen Natasha flinch...never ever, not even a tiny bit, not even a blink...but when she’d touched Steve’s shoulder, he’d jerked away and yelled, “No!” with such finality that she’d bounced back three feet. Then, like he hadn’t just screamed at one of his best friends, Steve had just rolled his shoulders forward and traced the outline of Bucky’s body. He’d either been feeling Barnes’ suffering through his index finger like an empath, or he’d been pretending to be an investigator drawing the chalk outline around Barnes’ body at a crime scene. Definitely one or the other. Regardless, it had been a complete shit show.

At hour sixteen, Wanda had given it a shot, putting her hands on the armrest as she’d squatted down next to Steve. Tony had kept waiting for her to do something impressive (if she could blast Vision’s ass halfway down to the Earth’s mantle, you’d think she was capable of getting Steve to give himself a break and take a fucking shower) but there’d been nothing. No freaky mind-stone-mojo. No levitating Steve into the shower _in_ the fucking chair. Nothing. All she’d done was say, “This isn’t the way to help him, Steve.”

It had been very anticlimactic. Steve had ignored her completely, which _had_ been impressive. Tony couldn’t believe that Steve’s balls were big enough to blow off the _one person_ who could just waltz inside his mind and _make_ him move. But there’d been no red wispy things creeping out of her fingers, no giant crater in the middle of the command center (seriously, that had caused major structural damage), and no sign of stereotypically witchy red eyes. Pointless. Maybe she should’ve stayed at ‘Whiny Witch Camp’.

Tony started drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk as Barnes got more and more blue around the edges; he couldn’t take much more of this. Even with his superserum knock-off there was only so much the body could take. Tony knew it, FRIDAY knew it, Dr. Cho knew it, they _all_ fucking knew it. He was honestly surprised Barnes had made it this long. Tony had been positive _none_ of them were going to make it out of hour twenty alive...

 

**FRIDAY 10PM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 31/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 20**

Tony and Natasha had been trying to use the names of the dead in Kazakhstan to figure out which shady government officials these pricks had bribed to pull off this whole ‘Gangs of New York’ thing. Sam and Rhodey had spent the last few hours discussing Barnes’ increasingly grave physical situation with Dr. Cho and none of them had been getting anywhere. The multicultural Droogs had been forcing Barnes to read more projections, and with every new name they’d flashed on the wall, FRIDAY had been trying to find some link between the victims, the people who’d orchestrated this whole nightmare, and something useful. Where had these dicks been? How’d they find each other? When did it start? What was their endgame? Most of the dead guys were hired mercenaries; expendable, paid in cash, _dead_ dead-fucking ends.

Then hour twenty hit, and everything went straight to hell.

Barnes mumbled something weird about Rhodes that caught Tony’s attention, and he looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else had caught it. But everyone was still doing their thing, so Tony took a closer look at what they were doing to Barnes. Waterboarding. Shit. Maybe this was the horrible thing (in the long list of horrible things) that was finally gonna tip Barnes over the edge? Which would be completely understandable since they were drowning him, _and_ drugging him, _and_ shocking him, _and_ making him read shit all at the same time. Of _course_ he was getting confused! The fact that he was talking at all was a miracle. But then Barnes slurred, “Date Unknown. The Winter Soldier participates in the involuntary removal and implantation of memories in the Black Widow operative named Natalia Alianovna Romanova,” and Tony dropped his tablet on his foot.

Instantly, every eye in the room fixated on Natasha, who just swallowed. It took her a second to inhale a shuddering breath and straighten her shoulders, but all she said was, “Excuse me,” before walking out the door.

“Ummm,” was all Tony managed to say. Nobody else managed to say _anything_.

Every time Barnes read something that wasn’t there and they shocked the shit out him, Steve dug his fingers deeper and deeper into the sides of his head. Tony half expected him to start pulling out his hair.

Susan Matthews was barely pulling the wet cloth away from Barnes’ mouth to let him catch a breath, and she was looking more and more unstrung every time she decided not to kill him. Tony found himself holding his breath whenever the drowning started, and he ran out of air _minutes_ before they even _considered_ letting Barnes breathe. Tony got the sinking feeling that this was it...they were about to watch Barnes die. Right here, right now, they weren’t going to let Barnes breathe and it was going to be over.

But she yanked it off, and Barnes vomited all over himself, before gasping, “June 22, 2017. The Winter Soldier fails Clinton Francis Barton. The Soldier’s crimes led The Avengers into an ambush, where Clint Barton was shot, before falling three stories to his death.”

What? Tony jerked his head towards Steve and yelled, “What?”

That one sentence was more powerful than a KGB trained Russian spy _and_ a cosmically enhanced ‘witch’ capable of mind control, because it got Steve to stand up for the first time in hours. His broad shoulders stayed squared as the sound of Barnes’ body slamming against the table echoed around them, but when the shock finally stopped, he slowly turned and whispered, “He thinks he killed Clint.”

“Steve, he’s just confused.” Rhodes winced as he pushed himself vertical.

“No,” Steve hissed, “ _That’s_ _why_ he’s doing this to himself! He thinks Clint’s dead!”

There was nothing loud about his voice, but Tony clearly saw the vibration in his fingers when Steve mindlessly picked up the shield. He’d dropped it on the floor, after they’d first gotten off the jet, and just left it there in the middle of everything. They’d all been walking around it like it was a land mine, nobody daring to touch it in case it exploded or something, but now, seeing how tightly Steve was gripping the edge, Tony wished the cleaning lady had put it in the closet.

Barnes spit out a mouthful of water before he mumbled, “January 22, 1942. Stevie Rogers is deceived by James Buchanan Barnes. The liar excitedly tells Stevie that he enlisted in the army because of an altruistic desire to protect his country, but his draft papers were shoved deep in his pocket.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitched and a single tear rolled down his cheek. A thousand emotions ran across his features all at once, but if one stood out from the rest, Tony would say it was despair.

“Steve, he’s feeling the mental effects...it’s not…” Sam started. God, he was doing his best, the guy deserved a medal, but in that moment everything started crumbling...

“Stevie,” Barnes coughed, “you should push the button too.”

“It’s not what, Sam!?” Steve rounded on him, his hand squeezing the shield as he started lifting it off the floor. “It’s not my fault?! Is that what you were about to say!?”

“I don’t want your fucking cake, Steve!”

Barnes’ voice echoed through the room, and Tony had no clue what the hell he was talking about...but Steve sure did. The words coming out of Barnes’ mouth had the same effect as a speeding bus hitting Steve head on, except cute little Sandra Bullock wasn’t the one driving. Every bit of strength that was left in Steve’s body was crushed, and he looked...gone.

When the pricks shocked Barnes so violently that blood started pouring out of his ears, Tony heard Steve’s teeth grinding together as he tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“I said, I don’t want it, Steve! Just push the fucking button!” Barnes screamed, choking and gurgling.

Tony wanted to reach out and cover Steve’s eyes when the shackle on Barnes’ right wrist pushed enough current through him to blister the skin before it exited out the deep gash by his elbow; but then Steve pulled back the shield, and Tony decided to be scared shitless instead.

“Um, Steve…” Tony thought maybe he should say something...

Barnes interrupted that train of thought when he moaned, “At least I won’t have to lift any more heavy boxes of Mars Bars for Mrs. Rosie Gold.”

The look on Steve’s face said it all.

“You were saying this _isn’t_ my fault?” Steve screamed, his sneer curling to frightening levels.

This was so far beyond how Tony’d ever seen Steve look, and Tony knew... _this_ was his dark side.

“Steve...” Sam started.

“No! Fuck that! It’s _all_ my fucking fault!”

The shield flew so violently across the room that Tony heard the zip of the metal slicing through the air molecules, before it smashed through the floor to ceiling window into the lounge.

“Jesus Christ”, Tony gasped, as the shield impacted the pool table. Glass shards were flying across the carpet, and the vintage Ms. Pac-Man arcade game, and the fruit bowl, and the couch, and the foosball table, and...fucking everywhere!  

But Steve didn’t acknowledge the exploded window, or the way the shield had split the corner pocket in half and was still sticking out the side. There was so much potential humor in the way all nine balls were ricocheting around the table from the impact (and even more when the eight ball dropped into the side pocket) but there was no way anybody was ever gonna laugh about ‘The time Uncle Steve killed the pool table’ if the punchline was ‘Then Uncle Barnes died.’

Steve grabbed his chair, slowly rolled it back to the same spot, and played with his red bracelet as Barnes’ wrist continued to bubble.

Hour twenty had been fucking horrible.

  


**SATURDAY 1 AM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 39/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 23**

Now, here he was, with nobody for company except Astro, who _still_ hadn’t fetched Tony another drink. And damn, did he need another well-shaken cocktail, Irish car bomb, Mai Tai, mojito (with the crushed mint), blow job with overflowing whip cream, _NyQuil_...anything. Functional alcoholics can’t function without alcohol! Tony sniffed and stared out the window at the moon. It was late enough that it was coming through the skylights and making everything look eerie, which, considering the situation, was appropriate mood lightning. The cinematographer was on point.

Maybe some fresh air would do him good? He walked towards the sliding glass doors, that led to the command center’s balcony, and posed the question of the day. “FRIDAY, do you think I’ve been unfair to Barnes?”

“I think you know the answer to that question, boss.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop with the Psychology shit?” Tony sighed, and pressed his nose against the glass. It felt cold, even though the air was summery warm. “Do you think that I’m suddenly incapable of figuring this out because I hate him?”

“I think you know the answer to that question too. Even if you _did_ hate Sergeant Barnes enough to sabotage his rescue, I’m certain that you’d never do that to Captain Rogers.”

“I don’t think Steve’s gonna make it through this, FRIDAY.” Tony slid back the door and stepped out into the night air, not waiting for the response. It wasn’t the shield in the pool table that scared him the most, it was what had happened _after_ the shield...

The Torture Brigade had _finally_ stopped waterboarding Barnes in hour twenty-one, and even better, the Russian with the beard (the delightful Yegor Orlov) had _finally_ undone the ridiculous Gulliver’s Travels chains. Barnes could probably break the Titanic in half if he wanted to, so thinking a few chains from Home Depot were gonna do the trick had been wildly optimistic. When the Bolivian man FRIDAY had identified as Arturo Barreda had tipped Barnes onto the floor, fastened a shackle around his right wrist, then had shot another dose of tranquilizers into his ass, Tony had felt so relieved (which was a real kicker). Feeling happy that Barnes was drugged so heavily that he was barely breathing was insane, but that was the situation. At least whenever they knocked him out, they stopped trying out the Medieval torture techniques they’d found on Wikipedia.

FRIDAY had thought she’d found a link between Dante Leonard and some General in the Kazakh military, and Tony’d been helping to chase the lead with Sam and Natasha. When Steve had silently gotten out of his chair, nobody had understood what was happening at first, in fact, everyone had the ‘squinty-eyed what-the-hell-is-happening’ look because Holy Fucking Shit Captain America had just whipped out his flagpole! And by _flagpole_ Tony meant _dick_! Without taking his eyes off the screen, Steve had unzipped the fly of his stealth suit, whipped out his frighteningly impressive cock for all the world to see, grabbed the closest empty whiskey bottle, and proceeded to almost overflow it with bright yellow piss. There’d been at least fifteen people staring in shock, but Steve had just set it back into Alcoholic Row, zipped up his fly, and sat back in his chair like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

While everyone else pretended they hadn’t just confirmed that the serum did, in fact, enhance _everything_ , Tony had fixated on that bottle of piss. It was so yellow, and next to Steve’s feet and the smashed poppyseed bagels, it had become a symbol. That bottle had meant that they were losing Steve Rogers. Everything that he was...every title, every uniform, every shield, _all_ of it... had been reduced to a bottle of piss and a hopeless image on a screen. At least the first time Captain America had lost Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, he didn’t have to watch it happening in slow motion.

Sam had _finally_ gotten Steve to take a break when they’d hit midnight: hour twenty-two. Arturo Barreda had started slicing a crescent moon across Barnes’ entire ribcage; like he was a cow at slaughter, a side of beef, or baby back ribs smeared in blood, and Sam had stepped between Steve and the god-awful image on his monitor. Everyone except Tony and Sam had decided to get some rest and start fresh at dawn, so it had been just the three of them when the screaming had started again. But as soon as Sam had blocked the screen the screaming had stopped, which had been so much worse. Without Barnes’ cried the only sound had been the blade scraping over each bone.

FRIDAY had cut the feed, because even she’d known it was too much, and Sam had physically rolled Steve backwards in his chair; past the tangled cords, the poppyseed bagels, and the bottle of piss. When he‘d gotten Steve ten feet away from the spot he’d been glued to for hours, Sam had knelt down and carefully rested his hands on the tops of Steve’s knees. Listening to Sam talk, all Tony could think was ‘thank you Sam, thank you for doing what I couldn’t’.

“Steve. I love you man, and I’m putting my foot down _because_ I love you,” Sam had started, in his best VA counselor voice. “You’re gonna lay down in my room right now. I’m gonna tuck you in myself and you _will_ sleep. I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. In fact, I’m gonna sit there and watch to make sure you’re _actually_ sleeping. Bucky’s _alive_ , Steve. He’s not okay by any means, but you’re acting like he’s already dead. He’s not. He’s still breathing and you need to hold onto that! Everyone’s starting fresh in the morning, FRIDAY’s working non-stop, and we linked T’Challa’s team to the feed so they can monitor him all night. We’re gonna get him back. We’re gonna figure this out. We need _you_ to help figure this out. But man, you’re no good to _anyone_ like this. What if we get a location in the morning? You gonna swoop in and rescue him like this? You gonna have the team’s back like this? Hell no, you aren’t! When we find him, Bucky’s gonna need you, maybe more than he ever has, so you need to sleep, drink, and eat something.” Sam had let his hands move up to Steve’s shoulders as he’d switched his tone. “C’mon man...please."

It had taken twenty-two hours to get Steve to leave the command center, and when Sam had guided him through the shattered window pane, pieces of glass the cleaning crew had missed crunching under their shoes, Tony hadn’t known if the Steve Rogers he’d known would ever really return.

As soon as they’d rounded the corner, Tony had grabbed a new bottle of whiskey and told FRIDAY to switch all the monitors back on. It took sixty minutes of sitting alone in the moonlight, watching the monster he’d fantasized about killing for over a year struggling to breathe, for Barnes to transform into something else in Tony’s mind. He still hated him, and wanted to cover him with poop emojis, but _nobody_ should have to endure what was happening on that screen.  By the end of hour twenty-two, Barnes became a man Tony _needed_ to save so he didn’t lose _Steve_.

Now he just had to figure out how to do it! Dragging in one more breath of night air Tony stomped back into the command center, snatched his dirty glass tumbler from under a pile of papers, and poured a heavy shot of whiskey. Oh, who was he kidding, he filled the whole goddamn glass! Because not only did he have no fucking ideas, but he was so far past hungover, or the hair-of-the-dog cure, that he was pretty sure the DTs were gonna kick in at any second. So he wanted to save Barnes now? Great. Great plan. Now what?

He looked all around the command center, which was a disaster, and didn’t know what to do. Mentally, he needed at least four energy drinks to even _begin_ dealing with the reality that Barnes had not only hallucinated that Tony, not Sergei, had stabbed him, but that he’d provided helpful directions so it didn’t kill him. How considerate of Barnes...making sure he’d survive so Tony could do more stabbing at a later date. Friday: revenge stabbing in the side (watch out for that liver), Saturday: revenge stabbing in the shoulder (keep the blade at a high angle to miss the brachial artery) Sunday: revenge stabbing to the hand (aim for the middle for maximum stigmata effect), Monday: revenge stabbing in butt (hey, don’t mess with the merchandise)…dammit! That was so fucked up and Tony didn’t know what to do with it...except stop being a dick, and try to live up to his genius reputation and pull a miracle out of his ass.

Barnes was in so much pain that he was losing his goddamn mind...one that was barely fixed to begin with...and he was just _letting_ it happen because he thought Clint was dead and he was mad at Steve for making him a cake.

He grabbed Astro, flipping him back up on his metal ass, before pacing in front of him.

“Astro, what the hell am I supposed to do with this self-sacrificing bullshit? Seriously, who does Barnes think he is? Jesus Fucking Christ?” Tony slammed half the glass, took a breath, then slammed the rest; because feeling anything except hate towards Barnes was freaking him the hell out.

“Apparently, if I manage to get Barnes out of this mess...which at this rate I fucking doubt...but if I _do_ I’m gonna have to weave him a crown of thorns _and_ go to Hallmark to pick out an apology card. Have you ever been to Hallmark, Astro? It smells like potpourri farts. It should be avoided at all costs and I don’t wanna go!”

Tony glanced at the shield sticking out of the pool table and added that to his ever expanding list of things to fix.

“And you know what? If we do get Steve’s _boyfriend_ back, I’m gonna have to do a whole hell of a lot more than pick crusty Macaroni and Cheese out of that hand. With the amount of current those bastards keep blasting up his multi-million dollar arm, that I paid for, I’m gonna have to rebuild the whole fucking thing _and_ pay for it again! Don’t you think that’s bullshit?”

Astro didn’t even care enough to bark.

“Boss, would you like me to call Miss Romanoff?”

“No FRIDAY. I’m working shit out with my dog.” He threw the sliding glass door back open and yelled over the balcony. “And I’m so pissed at Barton! What the hell was he thinking?” Tony was yelling at the trees, maybe howling at the moon, maybe hoping his voice would wake up Clint in his hospital bed so he’d realize he was a dumbass.

“Only an idiot would jump in front of Barnes for no goddamn reason! Astro, do you hear me? Hawkeye is stupid. He’s _lucky_ he’s not dead! He _should_ be dead!” Tony stomped in and out of the door, in and out because he was _mad_ , and that’s what you do when you’re mad; you stomp!

“FRIDAY, he’d be dead if I hadn’t flown him to that hospital, wouldn’t he?”

“Statistically, without the Narcan to reverse the effects of the tranquilizer, the odds were not in his…”

“I know!” Tony interrupted because he _did_ know! “You know what pisses me off, FRIDAY? That we couldn’t call for immediate backup because of The Goddamn Accords!” He stopped in front of Astro again and he looked sad. Tony had built him with a doggy frown. Astro needed a friend. He needed to build Muffit III the dog-drone.

“Astro, you know what else sucks? Vision! Fuck him! He should’ve been there to carry Clint, so I could’ve chased down that goddamn helicopter and gotten stupid Barnes back before this whole thing really started! Or even better, been there to explode everyone with his alien-mind-stone-thing. But _nooo_ , apparently synthetic humanoids have lots of _feelings_ and need time to ‘find themselves’ after blasting my best friend out of the sky.”

Tony needed Vision’s help to come up with a way to break into their system. He needed Vision to do... _Vision_ stuff. He needed Vision period. And he needed Bruce! He needed Bruce to help him work this problem, but Bruce had to get all whiny and fly off into the sunset to Hulk-out on some tropical island. He was probably in Ibiza, drinking a Margarita in the middle of a bubble rave, having a really awkward relationship with a local girl, and working on his tan. Tony poured another shot and wondered: if Bruce gets a really good tan, does the Hulk turn a darker shade of green? So many questions, and everyone he needed to answer them was missing. He needed Rhodes in the sky. He needed Thor to shoot lightning bolts at bad guys! He needed Lang _here_! At this rate he could even use Parker! He needed somebody to talk to that wasn’t an AI, or a fucking robot-dog that only poured shots!

Tony scrubbed his hands up and down his face, then stared at the bottle of piss against the wall. Fuck that piss! Fuck Steve for making him feel this way! Fuck Barnes for making him feel something other than hate towards him. What if he _liked_ hating Barnes? What if all he had was his anger!? He didn’t have Pepper. Maybe Anger was his new girlfriend?! Now Barnes was stealing his girlfriend _and_ Steve! Fuck this whole situation!

Snatching up his half empty fifth of whiskey, he stormed towards the row of bottles. He needed Steve. He really needed _Steve_ , and there was no way in hell Tony was getting him back until he figured out how to rescue Barnes! He stood at the end of his rows and rows of alcoholic trophies, and focused on Steve’s bottle of piss on the other side.

“Goddamn it!” Tony yelled, pulling the bottle backwards like a baseball bat, so the liquor poured all over his wrists as he wound up.

He was going for a grand slam when he smashed the rows of bottles as hard as he could. The glass exploded all the way down the line as they started falling like dominos; each one crashing into the next, until the chain reaction made it to Steve’s bottle of bright yellow piss. It toppled like the rest and poured out all over the floor, gurgling like Barnes had when he was choking on water and screaming about cake. Tony didn’t move when the stinking piss snaked towards him and ran around his shoes.

And that’s where he stood for all of hour twenty-three, stuck in the middle of Piss River and staring at the fallen bottles. He watched Barnes turning blue and floating in The Dead Sea until hour twenty-four, when _finally_ , at 2 am he had the beginnings of an idea…

“FRIDAY! Can we hack the satellite from a different direction? Come in the backdoor, so when it trips the alarm, we don’t get our hands caught in the cookie pot?” He waded out of piss river and kicked off his piss shoes into the shattered bottles (he was never wearing those again), because this could work! This could be the answer! This could be the thing that gave him his dick back!

“We tried that at the beginning, boss, but...”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, _I know_ , but we didn’t dress up as the Trojan Horse, FRIDAY! Think Titanic sending out their SOS, or playing tin-can telephone, or carrier pigeons! Think _old_ school! Barton would think old school! Why didn’t I think like Barton from the very beginning!? Natasha, I understand...I’d be distracted too if my snuggle buddy almost croaked...but I’ve got no fucking excuse for not thinking of this twenty hours ago! FRIDAY, if we dress you up like a big wooden horse and pray North Korea’s into bestiality, can we get into that fucking satellite and get a source?”

“Miss Romanoff had me run through over a thousand scenarios but all of them would alert the North K...”

“Oh my god! I know! I _know_!” Tony interrupted, rapidly starting to pull up options for his Greek costume party. “But we didn’t go back far enough! I’m talking 13th century BC old-school. She was trying 1970s Tricky Dick old-school. Wake her up! Wake them all up! Except Steve. Don’t wake up Steve...not until I’m sure.”

*****

 

**SATURDAY 3 AM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 41/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 25**

“Tell me this is gonna work, Tony.” Sam was pacing around him in the command center, and it wasn’t helping Tony’s concentration.

“Would somebody please go get me some coffee!?” Tony rubbed his eyes and yawned. His human body was finally giving in, and he was so mad at himself for not thinking of this sooner. He was gonna have to hand over his top-genius ranking to fucking Bruce; shove the distinction in a box and mail it first-class to Tahiti. Why was Sam staring at him like that? Oh yeah...was this gonna work? “It’s gonna work, Sam. The North Koreans couldn’t resist our big wooden horse, they pulled it right into their satellite (which I’m renaming Troy), and FRIDAY’s about to push through on the other side. Coffee goddammit! Somebody. Anybody. Do I need to build myself another robot dog to do that too?”

Natasha had her hair piled on top of her head, which was weird, and distracting. She crowded up next to him and said, “And you’re confident they won’t know we’re in?”

“What? I mean, I think so. I guess we’ll see.”

Crowding Tony from the other side, Steve asked, “So this could put him at risk?”

His energy felt overwhelming; freaked out, mad, sad, concerned, pissed...Tony could not deal with Steve’s panic vibe without coffee. “I think the fact that they burnt the sides of his feet with a blowtorch yesterday, means it’s worth the risk.” Everyone stared at Tony like he’d just stabbed their puppy (oh yeah, he did). “What!? I’m not the one with the torch. I’m the one trying to figure out how to get him out of there!”

“Try a little tact, man,” Sam sighed, “That’s all I’m asking for here.”

Steve slouched down into a different chair, giving his corner of depression a much needed break, before dropping his head into his hands. “Just do it.”

“Good.” Tony ran the logistics again in his head. “We have to make sure this can’t bounce back to us. FRIDAY, keep an eye out for North Korean launch sequences. I’m kidding...I’m totally not kidding. Natasha, you ready on your end?”

“Yeah.” She was in front of a computer waiting to manually lock on the location if needed.

“Okay, to be clear, if this works, we’ve got T’Challa on standby and our Quinjet’s ready to go. FRIDAY, if T’Challa’s closer send him immediately. Time’s gonna matter. I can’t guarantee that we aren’t about to streak across the bad guy’s football field with our dicks and tits bouncing around while we’re waving a giant flag ‘hello’. If they notice, we can’t expect them to stay put. I can’t even promi…”

“Just do it,” Steve sniffed, and Tony could see tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

His brain told him to respond like a smartass, loading up the usual list of hilarious comments to choose from...did Nike pay you to say that? You been hanging out with Shia LaBeouf? Did Shia introduce you to Optimus Prime? Bet Optimus would get along great with your robot fuck buddy... but Tony kept his mouth shut and turned to his holoscreen instead. “Okay, FRIDAY, hit it.”

“Initiating trace, boss.”

Many things happened at once. Numbers and code began flowing in front of them, Natasha started nodding her head, and FRIDAY rapidly began feeding them information. All good things. This was gonna work, Tony could feel it...even without the mother fucking coffee...he could tell. “Yes,” he whispered, looking at everything pouring in, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

“Cracked the first wall, boss. Anticipating several more before I can hone in on a location.”

“Tony.” Sam grabbed his bicep, which was bullshit right now.

“Not now! Can’t you see…”

“Tony!” Sam yelled, yanking him to face the screen monitoring Barnes, and Tony blinked.

His body was arching in the water from the electricity screaming through his metal arm. The shock was constant and more powerful than they’d seen before. “What the hell?” Tony yelled, because what the hell!?

Steve pulled his hands away from his face and jumped to his feet, switching to full-panic in a fraction of a second. “Bucky!”

“It’s not stopping...” Rhodey’s eyes were widening...everyone’s were.

“Why isn’t it stopping!?” The terror in Steve’s voice made Tony shiver.

Natasha added to the noise, yelling, “Tony, what if…? Jesus christ! FRIDAY, stop! Stop the trace!”

“What? No! _I_ tell FRIDAY what to do! Look!” Tony pointed at FRIDAY’s calculations and shook his head. “We’re almost through!”

Barnes’ muscles were contorting, and everyone in the room started screaming at Tony at once. He couldn’t even tell who was who. It was complete chaos.

“Tony!” Rhodes yelled in the special way that only _Rhodey_ had mastered...

“It’s not connected!” Tony snapped in everyone’s general direction. But watching Barnes, he felt the sweat building on his brow. “It can’t be connected! They aren’t that smart!” He glanced at Steve’s huge eyes and realized that maybe they were. “Dammit! FRIDAY, cut it!”

“Connection dropped.”

Within five seconds the shock stopped and Barnes’ body unwound, limp, unmoving and god fucking dammit! They _knew_ Tony would eventually come at them through the satellite and they’d linked it to the electricity. Tony pushed in and they’d hit Barnes with constant current until Tony stopped pushing. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Steve shoved Sam out of the way to touch one of the monitors. “Is he breathing? Jesus, please tell me he’s breathing!”

“He’s breathing, Steve,” Natasha answered. “Look, look he just moved his head.”

“FRIDAY, how close were we to locking on the source?” Tony knew they’d been right there! They were right fucking there!

“Uncertain, boss, but if I had to venture a guess, I’d say less than thirty seconds.”

Barnes could take thirty seconds. Half a minute wouldn’t kill him. Right? He’d fallen hundreds of feet into a ravine and had his arm ripped off before Hydra had even fully juiced him up, and _that_ didn’t kill him! He could take it for thirty seconds! This might be their last chance. Now that they _definitely_ knew Tony’d found the back door, they’d close it.

Natasha was staring at Tony, because she _always_ knew what he was thinking before he even did anything. She was worse than Wanda.

“Tony, you can’t.”

“It’s less than a minute, Natasha.”

“We can’t.”

“ _We_ don’t have any other choice, you know that as well as I do. This could be our last shot to get _both_ of them back.” Tony took one last look at Steve crying, at his _friend_ falling apart, and made the decision. “FRIDAY, reinitiate trace.”

“Reinitiating.”

In the five second delay it took to trigger the electricity, the look of betrayal that appeared on Steve’s face hit Tony right in the gut and knocked the wind out of him. He knew that look intimately; it was the same one he’d given Steve in Siberia. If Steve decided to backhand him as hard as Tony had slammed the Iron Man suit across his face, it would break his neck.

This time, the arc was visible as it snapped Barnes metal arm like a rubberband, but the worst part was the sound. There was a sickening sizzle coming through the speakers.

“How long, FRIDAY?”

Steve was moving towards Tony, but Natasha took a step to block him. It wasn’t his Captain America voice the order when he growled, “Shut it down!” It was rage. Pure unadulterated rage.

The sizzling gave way to gurgling, as foam started pouring out the side of Barnes’ mouth.

“Twenty seconds, at least.” FRIDAY sounded sorry. God, Tony felt sorry too. It was too long.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Steve grab a hammer as he screamed, “I said, shut it the fuck down!” The hammer spun end over end when he threw it full force at Tony’s head. It missed his ear by three fucking inches, before taking a huge chunk out of a support beam.

“Fuck! Stop throwing things, Steve!” Tony’s heart was in his throat, for obvious near-death reasons. Didn’t he know how to do anything else when he got pissed? Chairs, shields, fucking hammers at people’s heads! Was he gonna throw Natasha next?

“Oh my god.” Sam’s voice was not reacting to the hammer, even though that would be a very fitting response. He’d lunged at Steve, wrapping his arms around his waist to try to hold him back, and Tony knew it was bad before he even looked. The seam of the metal arm was burning Barnes’ skin around the joint.

“FRIDAY?” Tony was starting to panic, but this could be their only chance! “Tell me you’ve got it.”

Natasha was starting to panic too. “Tony, it’s too much. You’re gonna stop his heart!”

“Twelve seconds, boss. I believe this is the last firewall.”

Suddenly, Barnes seized so violently that his body arched out of the water and he flipped face down.

“No, no no no no!” Steve collapsed to his knees and wailed, “You’re killing him! You’re _killing_ him!”

Any secret desire, any one of million revenge fantasies, any bit of ego, any bit of _anything_ that Tony thought he’d feel watching The Winter Soldier getting his due, was completely erased as the electricity ripped him apart with his face underwater.

“Please, Tony. Please stop! Please…”

“Eight seconds.”

Everyone was screaming at him from all sides, but in a few more seconds they’d have it! Barnes was strong, a fucking cockroach in a nuclear winter, he could take it...

“Please, Tony. Take it out on me, I don’t care. Kill _me_ instead, if that’s what you need to do. Just stop hurting him. Just stop...” Steve was on his hands and knees sobbing.

‘ _Kill me instead?_ ’...Did Steve Rogers just say _‘kill me instead’_? Tony felt his stomach clench as he stared down at him. The legendary hero, they great and powerful Captain America was begging at Tony’s feet, submissive like he was showing the soft underside of his belly, and Tony realized what he’d become.

“FRIDAY! Stop! Cut it now!”  

And when it stopped, when it all stopped, Barnes’ skin was black where it connected to the metal and his face remained underwater. Tony stumbled backwards to slide down the wall because he’d been wrong. He’d been wrong about _everything_.

In the twenty-fifth hour, Tony did more to injure Bucky Barnes than the bad guys had done in hours one through twenty-four. In the twenty-fifth hour, Tony Stark, in the guise of hero, became everything he despised.

*****

 

**SATURDAY 4 AM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 42/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 26**

Bucky didn’t know how he got here, how he ended up face down in the draining salt water until the other young man, the strongest one, yanked him up by the hair. Erik Neumann was seeking vengeance for his best friend Kurt Scholz, who Bucky Barnes had killed with a cinder block during his escape from German Special Forces in Bucharest. Bucky didn’t know he’d killed anyone that day...he was an idiot for thinking he didn’t. He tried to move the metal arm to push his face off the floor but it wasn’t working right. It felt heavy, and the plates in the forearm weren’t responding. Maybe he should just pull it off?

“Your people almost killed you. Wouldn’t that be a great end to our story? Even though each one of us deserves to pull the trigger and explode your fucked-up brain all over these walls, your own colleagues might beat us to that final act,” Erik chuckled, before hauling Bucky up and throwing him into the metal chair.

There were so many faces in the room. So many voices. So many accents. So many crimes. Bucky had lost count. Was it one or nine?

Sergei’s boots appeared in front of Bucky’s bare toes...no shoes, no socks, no toenails... “I imagine it was Stark. He pretends to play along with your Avengers but he is more like us. Don’t you agree?”

So much rancid water had leached into Bucky’s wounds that the serum couldn’t keep up. Gotta feed the monster if you want to keep it alive. Gotta stitch the demon’s holes shut if you want him to scab over. He could feel the poison of the sepsis flowing into his brain as Bucky laughed, his lips cracking and splitting even more from the action.

A big black boot landed on the chair between Bucky’s thighs, grinding him backwards with a horrific screech. “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m overcooked. Burnt around the edges. Crispy and black. I told everyone I can’t cook for shit and now look at me.” Bucky picked at the black skin peeling back from the metal arm. “I’m way past cutting off the burnt crust.”

Sergei pulled his boot off the chair, then slapped Bucky hard across the face. “You will not laugh in my presence! You Monster! You will not laugh!”

“But Clint, you’ve gotta admit this is fuckin’ funny. I _told_ you not to leave me in charge of the pancakes! How am I supposed to cover up these burnt edges with syrup and butter?” Bucky raised the bottle and poured thick maple syrup onto his shoulder. “Maybe powdered sugar? Oh, hell yeah! Clint, I’m a genius!” Bucky looked up at his smiling face, and chuckled, “Do you think powdered sugar will cover this?”

“Your _friends_ should have kept going; fried the rest of you until your eyeballs exploded! You are worthless to us like this. I should just shoot you now and end it.”

“Well, you definitely won’t be able to hide _that_ with powdered sugar,” Bucky cracked up.

Clint punched him in the nose, then yelled for them to bring in a suture set. They weren’t even bothering with the gas anymore. They weren’t bothering with the chains. Just the one Erik hooked to his right wrist; the one that connected him directly to the electricity. They weren’t bothering with anything, except the words, and the lights, and the noise, and the pain.

The door flew open as Frederic barged in...Freddie with the golden hair... then slammed shut just as fast. The locks on the outside clicked into place. They didn’t really need to bother with those either. God, Bucky was glad Stevie was back. Erik wasn’t as nice to him as that little spitfire, Stevie Rogers, even though they both liked to put bracelets on Bucky’s right wrist.

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky looked back over his burnt crust edges, and smiled at the most beautiful man in the world. Geez, and they say _Steve’s_ the sappy one.

He looked so pretty with his sunshine hair falling over one eye. It made Bucky feel warm. Suddenly, Sergei yelled, “Get that set up. I’m going to show the Avengers what happens when they try to find this bastard!”

_“No problem sir, anything for my Bucky.”_

Steve grabbed Bucky’s wrists to connect them together with a spacer bar and his blue eyes got huge. A shock suddenly rocked through Bucky’s wrist, right through the bar and into Stevie’s skinny arms, locking him there as the life went out of his eyes.

When the shock finally released him, Bucky screamed, “Nooo!” as little-Steve slumped to the floor.

The man with the beard was swearing in Russian as he dragged Stevie’s tiny body across the cell...what was his name? He couldn’t remember...and the only words Bucky could understand, as another violent spasm twisted his spine, were, “Don’t touch The Soldier! Don’t touch him! Stark did that on purpose!”

The shock had blown off Stevie’s shoes, and the newspaper covering the holes had turned to ash. It was sticking to his socks.

“Stevie…” Bucky cried out, as the trails of ash melted into the wet floor.

_“Yeah, baby?”_ Stevie asked, looking up from the sketchbook he had propped on his legs. He slid his stubby pencil over his ear and swung his sunshine hair out of his face. He was wearing shoes. Shoes shoes, you win you lose, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, wearing shoes is a must...

Bucky smiled at him, big and bright, because he was a sucker for that hair. But his wrist was distracting. It hurt. Burnt pancakes down there too. Maybe Stevie had some sugar in his pocket to cover that right up? Stevie always loved his sugar.

“Why didn’t my ma teach me how to cook? I mean, I remember her showing Becca how to make apple cobbler and how to peel the potatoes for stew. It seems like she would’ve at least taught me enough to fend for myself.”  Bucky’s head snapped to the side as a violent spasm shook through his body. He’d spill the apple cobbler if that happened while he was carrying it to the table.

Stevie laughed, his sketchbook sliding off his knees onto the wet concrete so the pages spread out around him in the sludge: Pencil sketches of Bucky leaning against the broken stoop in front of Stevie’s apartment, Bucky’s arm hanging off his lumpy bed with stripes of sun pouring through the open window and makin’ him look like a zebra, Bucky’s hands holding a bunch of daffodils and tulips he picked for his ma’. Every one of Stevie’s precious pages was getting stained and ruined by remnants of putrid water.

_“Oh, Bucky. It’s not your job to cook. I’m the one who makes you chicken noodle soup...without the chicken ‘cause we can’t afford it...but soup all the same. I know just how you like it.”_

“But shouldn’t I know how to fry a fish, or grill a steak, or something? Jesus, Stevie, I should know how to feed myself.”

Stevie placed a giant bowl, filled with nothing but noodles and clear broth, on Bucky’s lap. _“Here, try this. Tell me if it needs more salt, or if I need to blow on it to cool it down.”_

“What are _you_ gonna eat, Stevie? You’re gettin’ too skinny. I can’t punch any more holes in that belt darlin’. Its turnin’ into a doily.”

Stevie grabbed the bowl back, and shoved it under Bucky’s chin. _“I asked if it needed salt!”_

“No, I don’t like salt! It hurts! Don’t you see how deep this burn is? I burnt the pancakes into nothing, _Steve_! Look, it’s just the cast iron skillet left.” Bucky poked his finger into the seam of his shoulder and touched his clavicle. Strange how the metal bolts and plates connected to the white bones…

_“You like your soup salty, Buck. C’mon, eat it. It’s good for you.”_

“I don’t like it salty anymore, Steve!” Bucky flung the bowl violently against the kitchen wall. “I told you it fuckin’ burns!”

A ladle of broth...nothing but broth...was shoved under his nose, and just the smell of the salt made Bucky’s nostrils sting.

_“It’s always been your favorite baby. Just open your mouth.”_

“I don’t want it!!!”

“Open your fucking mouth! I’m not gonna say it again!” Sergei screamed, as he tried to shove the wooden stick between Bucky’s teeth. The scar on his face looked like it was spreading as he turned to the camera above the door. “Try that again and I’ll slice his throat! The second you try that again, I’ll cut him ear to ear. Do you hear me!? Do you hear me, Tony Stark!?”

Bucky spit out the salty broth Steve tried to shove in his mouth, and growled, “I _said_ , I want Macaroni and Cheese!”

_“But you burnt it, Buck. Remember? Just like you burn everything you touch.” Steve ran gentle salt covered fingers along the black marks spread over Bucky’s body._ _“Look sweetheart, you even burned yourself.”_

Bucky heard crackling and it was his baby! His gorgeous blond hair was on fire, the flames dancing above his head. “Stevie!”

_“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m used to it. Just open your fucking mouth and eat the goddamn soup!”_

When Bucky spread his teeth, The man with the beard, Yegor, that was his name Yegor Orlov, shoved the stick into his mouth so hard that the corners of his lips split. When Erik pulled on the metal arm, all Bucky could taste was salt.

“Now turn around on this chair!” Sergei yelled. “Do you understand me? Are you even in there? Turn around!”

Bucky started crying, gasping for air as he stumbled to follow the command, because Steve was leaning against the wall, strong-Steve, and the fire was climbing up the wall above his head like a snake. When Sergei started sewing stitches into non-existent wounds in the meat of Bucky’s flank, he couldn’t even feel it. One stitch, two stitches, ten, twelve, seventeen...seventeen-year-old Stevie was carefully putting the wet dirty pages back into this sketchbook: Bucky’s hand holding a bottle of beer, Bucky’s hair sticking up in every direction after a sweaty game of tackle football, and the one with their feet intertwined after they’d made love for the first time. Stevie had insisted on drawing their feet to ‘commemorate the moment’ and had laughed as he’d thrown pieces of red licorice vines around their toes. That one had been precious and pure. Not anymore.

Strong-Steve used his big hands to tuck each drawing back into the sketchbook, like they weren’t soggy, wrinkled, ripped, and stained. When he flipped the cover shut with a huge grin, and said, _“Look Buck, it’s perfect. Like nothing ever happened,”_ Bucky wept, because the sugar was a lie.

The heat from Stevie’s hair was suddenly heating up the skin on Bucky’s neck. He was whispering to Sergei and poking Bucky’s back with his stubby pencil. _“Here mister, lemme show you where to sew. I know exactly how to draw James Buchanan Barnes. I’ve drawn him a million times so I know every dip, every curve, every contour, and every last detail.”_ Bucky felt the sharp lead carving into his skin as Stevie pulled a curving line across his shoulder, then dug it deeper as he drew diagonally to his waist with a line that no longer fit.

Bucky could spit out the stick and tell him...it would only take a few sentences to make him understand...but instead he watched the glow of the fire illuminate the empty walls in front of him while the curved needle stabbed in and out, stitching the history of Stevie’s line. Bucky didn’t say anything because he never did, but the thoughts always ran through his mind...

                     _“Why do you like drawin’ all these ancient statues, Stevie? You really wanna hang out in a stuffy museum all day,_

_sketchin’ guys that are long dead, when you’ve got an honest to goodness live model right here in front of you?”_

Bucky didn’t say anything as the needle bent against marble.

*****

 

**SATURDAY 12 PM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 50/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 34**

Well at least they killed one guy right? Even if it was accidental. Even if it was just DJ Coderre, who seemed to be the low man on the Torture Tribe’s totem pole. Even if doing so shocked Barnes again. Even though Tony told Steve he was positive it wouldn’t... ‘They drained the water, Steve. There’s nothing to conduct it, Steve. We have to try again before they shut the door completely, Steve.’ Even though doing it again got them nowhere...again.

Tony was sitting in his chair, wondering if the alcoholism had finally affected his IQ, and poking at the turkey sandwich Sam had dropped in front of him at some point. He’d stopped looking at the time once they’d hit forty-eight hours since Barnes was taken. It was eerily quiet as everyone did their own thing to try to help. Someone had said it was Saturday. That sounded about right. He felt about as smart as the dead meat on his Wonder Bread sandwich.

Lang had _finally_ made it to the compound at some point post electrocutions/pre-dawn (thank god). They’d all eaten a nutritious breakfast (except Steve, who’d flipped Tony off when he offered). Chef Aaron had prepared everyone a perfectly cooked omelette (broccoli with cheese), three strips of crispy bacon (which Tony had thought was a tacky choice), a side of thinly sliced strawberries, and a big glass of freshly squeezed Florida orange juice. It had been very important to eat a well-balanced meal before getting back to the business of _not_ electrocuting the guy whose back looked like a twisted doll sewn by a psychopath in ninth-grade Home-Economics. Or Frankenstein’s monster. Maybe a doll version of Frankenstein’s monster?

Steve had actually changed clothes before he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and Tony imagined that Sam’d had to physically dress him. He’d put on soft grey sweats, a soft blue v-neck (that Tony was pretty sure belonged to Barnes), and soft white socks; but his face was anything _but_ soft. The angles of his jaw and cheekbones were starting to stick out (just like Barnes) because Steve hadn’t eaten a damn thing until Sam forced half a bagel down his throat a couple hours ago. Barnes hadn’t eaten at all.

Sam had also thrown a dill pickle on the plate, and the green juice was making Tony nauseous. It had soaked into the white bread and turned it a sickly shade of green, which was the same color as Barnes’…Dammit! Barnes couldn’t handle much more, and even though Sam was doing his best to keep Steve together (they all were), he couldn’t handle much more either. There was a new look in Steve’s eyes, a frightening one, and Tony had to admit the truth: as the possibility that Barnes wasn’t coming back became more and more real, the rumors that Steve had killed himself the first time around were moved into the fact category. No more blind acceptance of the implausible bullshit explaining why Captain America _had_ to crash that plane into the Arctic. No more pretending Tony didn’t understand what Peggy Carter had whispered in his ear when she’d handed him lemon meringue pie. No more turning a blind eye to the reality that Steve disappeared for hours every single time Barnes got upset, or that he bashed the back of his head when things were going wrong. There weren’t any weirdly attractive aliens in stupid horned helmets, or egotistical robots to force Steve’s depression underground. This time, everyone had VIP tickets to the main event...front and center for the show of the century: The complete and total disintegration of Steven Grant Rogers.

Sam had forced Steve to sit on the couch past the broken window, and he’d made sure the only monitor showing Barnes was the one Dr. Cho and Wanda were watching in the very back of the command center. Natasha had spent the day digging into old connections, trying to find _anybody_ who knew _anything_. T’Challa’s team was flying into Magadan, Russia, on a hunch that Charles Bronson might be on his Death Wish near the Sea of Okhotsk...because of the initial color of the salt water...and because some of the men had Russian accents...or because there was a missile silo somewhere around there...just to be closer to something, somewhere. They honestly had no fucking clue. Rhodes had been calling in favors under the table, basically asking his Air Force buddies to violate The Accords and commit treason. Tony had been pretending he had no clue why the North Koreans had their starched panties in a twist every time Ross had called. He’d put him on hold twenty minutes ago.

Lang had spent hours bouncing around new ideas with FRIDAY, and Tony knew he _needed_ this guy at the compound full time. Call North American Moving Services to pack up Lang’s ex-wife, and his ex-wife’s cop-husband, and his adorable daughter, and their giant-ant-dog, whoever...throw them all in the truck, move them in tomorrow...because Lang had fresh ideas. None of them had worked yet, but at least he’d started taking them in new directions.

They’d all watched Steve get quieter as each hour passed, until he’d stopped talking altogether when the clock passed 10 am again. Forty-eight hours. Barnes had been gone for two whole days.

Tony picked up Astro and stared at Steve, whose face was buried in the couch cushions. Steve hadn’t spoken one word to him, which was probably normal considering Barnes’ shoulder was burned down to the bone in places, and he didn’t budge when Tony walked past the couch on the way to his workshop. Tony had the weirdest desire to gently tuck a blanket around Steve, or maybe to cover him with fuzzy kittens, but he resisted. Instead, he set Astro on the ground next to Steve to keep him company. Tony was losing it too.

He needed some time to think... _alone_. It felt like he hadn’t been in his workshop in days... weeks...but Excalibur sticking out of the floor proved otherwise. Tony wrapped his hand around the end of the metal pole and started to cry.

“FRIDAY, put Barnes on screen.”

When Barnes’ body appeared, Tony rubbed his hand roughly across his forehead. He was convulsing in another seizure and Tony felt sick as he sobbed all over the fucking metal pole. These people were outsmarting him with simplicity! Hack into the Pentagon for kicks at fourteen? Nailed it. Defeat an egomaniac robot set on worldwide destruction? Well, Vision kinda handled that one...except for exploding the city...Tony got _that one_ right. He laughed, because that was one for the record books now wasn’t it? Someone needed to loop a gold medal around his neck for preventing mass destruction with mass destruction. Whatever. This was _one_ fucking video feed set up by a bunch of assholes in cheap black camo, and if he tried to trace it again he might as well slit Barnes’ throat himself. Tony had the names. He knew who they were. He knew why they were doing this. But they couldn’t fucking find them. Were they in Narnia? Did they drag Barnes through the wardrobe to die on a rock like Aslan? It would be fucking fitting. Tony knew the reason he felt like spewing bile and orange juice all over his shoes was because he was an asshole (not that he wasn’t always an asshole), but this time he’d been off the asshole chart. Tony _was_ gonna throw up, it was only a matter of time.

There were still no demands, no ultimatums, no ransom...nothing except the video feed...and Tony had to accept that none were coming. And for what? To punish The Avengers for bringing Barnes back into the fold? To have someone bear witness to their justice? To challenge Dr. Evil for the title? It didn’t matter at this point.

Three of the pricks stormed into the cell, yanking Barnes to his feet and shoving him against the wall. They weren’t even trying to restrain him anymore...they didn’t need to. Two supported him by the armpits, as the third started whipping deep lashes into his back. Barnes’ skin started splitting open like the sliced strawberries they’d eaten for breakfast, and Tony knew he’d never eat another strawberry for the rest of his life. Even as fucked up as Barnes was, Tony _knew_ he could snap all three necks before the whip finished cracking, but he hung there and just took it.

Tony kicked the pole so hard that he stubbed all five of his toes because Barnes had been _just taking it_ from Tony for the past three months. Tony might as well have been triggering those electrical shocks himself (oh yeah, he did). Three days ago, Tony had put The Winter Soldier in a leather chair and had shocked the hell out of him for shits and giggles. Tony swallowed and just let the ugly cry happen.

Three days ago, Tony had shocked the man who’d hopped on a jet the second Tony’d called, throwing himself in the middle of another battle without a single demand in return; without saying shit about Berlin, or Leipzig Airport, or even fucking Siberia. He’d jumped in and saved Tony’s ass in that fight (twice) and Tony had thanked him by digging into him every chance he’d gotten.

Three days ago, Tony had shocked the man who’d spent his afternoons in the garden, picking dead flowers off the stems so new ones could grow. The man who’d carried heavy bags of soil and mulch for the gardeners with a big smile on his face.

Three days ago, Tony had shocked the man who’d made Steve laugh by drawing dicks with Sharpie on the back of all of Clint’s t-shirts. Everyone had kept their mouths shut for days, until the morning Clint had strolled out with a ten-inch uncircumcised cock and giant hairy balls decorating the middle of his spine. Steve had collapsed on the floor, laughing so hard that his face had turned bright red. Yeah, Tony shocked Dick-Prank Guy.

Three days ago, Tony had shocked the man he’d seen carefully unbuttoning the collar of Steve’s dress shirt when they’d first moved to the compound. When Barnes had buried his nose in the space he’d created and gently kissed Steve’s neck, Tony had felt so betrayed. Apparently, he was the _only_ one who didn’t know they were gay as fuck and had been since they were in diapers. Might have been a nice tidbit for somebody to fucking share! But now, listening to the whip cracking, he remembered the look on Steve’s face as Barnes had sucked and nibbled in that stolen moment…and Tony hated himself.

Oh, and not only did Tony Stark shock the shit out of Barnes in the privacy of his own workshop. No, no, no, no...after they’d saved the world from yet another apocalypse, the great Tony Stark had made it crystal clear on live TV how much he despised The Winter Soldier. He’d worn his Sunday best, then had stood proudly in front of the forty or so microphones in The Avengers’ press room and declared, “Well folks, good news! We managed to kick evil’s ass again, even with a cold blooded killer on our team!” He’d pointed right at Barnes and winked for the cameras. “We’d like to announce that The Avengers fully support Affirmative Action for damaged assassins who’ve murdered hundreds of people in cold blood. This one, right here, earned extra special bonus points by killing _my_ parents! Spread the word! Go Team!”

And Barnes had just stood there, while hundreds of cameras had flashed to capture his reaction. He’d just stood there when T’Challa had stormed up to Tony, making it perfectly clear that Tony had better fucking move. And he’d just stood there when Steve had shoved him flat on his ass. It had been front page news for weeks.

Tony had been shocking Barnes since day one.

The video got brighter, and it was enough to pull Tony’s attention away from his throbbing toes and his weird King Arthur comparisons. The new projection read: _‘December 16, 1991. The Winter Soldier assassinates Howard and Maria Stark in order to steal scientific secrets from S.H.I.E.L.D…’_

Tony snapped up, his brain suddenly clicking at a zillion miles per hour. “What the hell? FRIDAY, zoom and project!”

Bucky’s rasping voice started reading the words projected onto his chest, and it hit him! Shit! Everything hit Tony at the same time! _Everything_ was projected onto Bucky: by the Army, by S.H.I.E.L.D, by Hydra, by the CIA, by Ross, by Tony...even by Steve...Every! Fucking! Thing!

Barnes read the final words, “The Starks are survived by their only son, Tony Stark, aka Iron Man,” and Tony ran in circles around the sword. Not because the captors jammed a knife into Barnes’ thigh when he said ‘Iron Man’, but because Tony had seen those _exact words_ before!

“Shit! FRIDAY! E-mail! That fucking creepy e-mail! Um, when was that!? Scan the archives for the past three months! Filter for that sentence, FRIDAY!”

“Got it, boss. Checking archives now.”

“How did I miss this!? Over two days and I missed this!”

“Found it. Key words match the following message: _If revenge for what The Winter Soldier stole from you is what you seek, we have your answer. S.H.I.E.L.D’s Scientific secrets were more important than the lives of Howard and Maria Stark. Iron Man, as their only surviving son, do you seek your revenge?_ ”

The encrypted message had showed up in Tony’s inbox days after the press conference fiasco. Steve still hadn’t spoken to him, Barnes hadn’t climbed out of whatever hole he’d been hiding in, someone had put a dead fish under his pillow, and Tony’d been drunk. So, when the cute little message inviting him to join a ‘Winter Soldier Torture Party’ had popped up, he’d blown it off. He’d played with the encryption enough to get the gist. _‘We saw on TV that you hate The Winter Soldier and that he killed your family, blah blah blah. We’d like to invite you to join our cause and get revenge, blah blah blah’_. So what? Another person who wanted to shoot The Winter Soldier in the head? He’d slammed his drink and mumbled, “Get in line”, before going about his day trying to repair a damaged arc reactor, while ingesting boatloads of Tequila to help him adjust to life under the same roof as the fuckface who’d murdered his parents.

On the screen, Barnes dropped as they yanked the blade back out of his leg.

“Dammit! Dammit FRIDAY! Can we trace this e-mail? It had a link! FRIDAY, doesn’t it have a link to reply? Jesus Christ, how did I...can we reverse engineer this?”

As data started running on every monitor in the room, Barnes kept repeating “December sixteenth, 1991,” over and over, and Tony felt his heart beating in his tongue.

“Running it now. Seems like it’s another way in, but it will take time to confirm.”

Bile crept up Tony’s throat because the blood pouring out of Barnes’ thigh was already making his black pants impossibly darker.

“We don’t _have_ time, FRIDAY! _Bucky_ doesn’t have any more time…”

*****

 

**SATURDAY 1 PM EDT.   POST ABDUCTION-HOUR 51/ VIDEO FEED-HOUR 35**

“He needs to hear your voice Steve. Can you handle it?” Tony looked nervous. He _should_ look nervous. Steve was honestly afraid of the myriad of things running through his mind...if Stark’s idea hurt Bucky again...if this got Bucky killed...he didn’t know if he could stop himself from acting on them, if this time he’d slam the shield into Tony’s throat.

Tony kept running around the command center, and Steve was furious they were stalling.

“Of course, I can handle it! It’s Bucky!” Steve yelled. “You’re wasting time!”

FRIDAY, the only voice that wasn’t stalling, interjected, “I can only loop the feed for about thirty seconds with minimal risk.”

“You mean without Tony burning off his other arm?” Steve snapped. “It seems to be a thing he likes to do.”

Tony was pushing a bunch of buttons, and moving shit around on his fancy holographic screens, so he could completely avoid eye contact with Steve when he calmly responded, “If we patch into their audio system any longer, they’ll know.”

It said something that Tony didn’t snap back, but Steve didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was getting Bucky back into his arms. Steve was _so damn sorry_ that he’d been doing _everything_ wrong. Pulling the collar of Bucky’s blue v-neck over his nose Steve tried to breathe in the lingering scent of him. What if he never got to smell Bucky’s skin again? No more long hairs tickling Steve’s nose when he tried to breathe in the crisp scent of his Eucalyptus shampoo, no more stinky sneakers thrown in the corner for Steve to complain about, no more tangy skin to inhale as he pulled off Bucky’s sweatpants with his teeth.

When Sam had made him take a shower, Steve had wandered around their empty apartment with new eyes. Bucky’s t-shirt had been thrown over the back of the arm chair in their room, and Steve had clutched it in his hands while he’d sat naked on the bed, dripping water all over their blue comforter. Every single hole in Bucky’s Jackson Pollock wall represented Steve’s failures, and as he’d sat there looking into each void, he’d realized how much Bucky had been trying to tell him. When Sam had come back to check on him, Steve had been naked, except for Bucky’s t-shirt, running his fingers across the holes in the wall.

“He’s awake and sitting still. Steve, we should to do this now.” Scott was pushing a bunch of buttons too, and Steve realized that his fingers had been tracing imaginary holes on the counter as he’d gotten lost in Bucky’s smell. “We need to make the video loop when he isn’t moving. And he’s not moving, so I think it’s a good time to do it, if we’re gonna do it...we are gonna do it, right?”

Natasha nodded at Scott, then turned to Steve like he was an idiot. “You know what to say?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now!? You heard Scott! We need to do this _now_ . Stop treating me like a child, and do it _now_!”

“Wow, harsh. Okay, let’s do this.” Scott clapped his hands together, before rambling, “Yep, ready to go. I’m so ready for this. Alright, Steve, remember, thirty seconds. You’ve gotta tell Bucky we can’t get to him for four hours so he needs to hang on and...”

“I can make it in three and a half at Mach 2,” Natasha interrupted. That got Steve’s attention because she hadn’t even flown that fast on the way back to the compound with Clint.

Fingers wrapped around his wrist, and Steve couldn’t believe it when he looked down and saw Tony’s hand. His brown eyes held something like shame when he handed Steve the headset, then said, “Tell him, Dr. Cho says his body can’t take much more; that the serum can’t keep up. Tell him, he _has_ to stop letting these people cut him to pieces. Tell him, we might not make it in time if…”

“ _You_ wanna do this?” Steve snatched the headset and jammed it on, because he didn’t have time to think about Tony right now. “Stop! I fucking _know_! FRIDAY, go.”

At first Steve thought it didn’t work, but then Scott pointed at him and nodded. He felt like he was praying for the first time in years when he said, “Bucky, can you hear me? If you hear me, don’t move.”

After the longest second of Steve’s life, Bucky rolled onto his back and started laughing at the ceiling, which was the best and worst thing that could have happened.

“Bucky, don’t move! Roll back to how you were! We have you on a video loop so they can’t hear or see us talking. Roll back!”

Bucky smiled, and Steve could see blood sticking to his teeth as he slurred, “August 23, 1936. Stevie Rogers is deceived by James Buchanan Barnes. The liar tells Stevie that he got the extra money for rent by pickin’ up extra shifts at the dock, when he really earned it droppin’ off dirty money for the gangsters at Rosie Gold’s.”

“No, Bucky, no. It’s Steve...I love you. We’re coming. We’ll be there in four hours, but you _have_ to listen to me. Dr. Cho says you aren’t gonna make it if you let them…”  

Bucky’s voice interrupted, as he spread his arms and legs out on the floor of that goddamn cell. “June 23, 2017. The Winter Soldier failed to protect Clint Barton during an ambush in Kazakhstan. The Soldier’s failure resulted in Clint Barton’s death.”

“Bucky, listen! You have to fight back. They’re going to _kill_ you if they find out we’re…”

“Steve, do _you_ know, that _I_ know, that _you_ flew straight into the ice? Do _you_ know, that _I_ know, that _you_ sunk your plane deep down in the deep blue sea, because you couldn’t live without little old me? I know, I know, I know. It was cold there, huh? It’s cold here too. I can’t feel my fingers or my toes or my nose…”

“Dammit, Bucky! Dr. Cho says you have to rip off a piece of your pants and tie it tight around your thigh above the stab wound. You’re losing too much blood and…”

“Steve, we’re past thirty,” Scott interrupted.

The headset was ripped off from behind, as Tony pushed Steve out of the way. “Bucky! Roll back to your side! Do it now!”

“Mission Report, December 16, 1991…”

“It’s hopeless.” Tony threw the headset on the desk and walked away. “We’re done. Patch the loop.”

“What!? Give me that!” Steve desperately screamed into a microphone that was no longer connected, but he yelled anyway. He needed to tell him! “You have to fight! Do you hear me!? You have to fight!”

But Bucky stayed on his back laughing, and the world stood still.

“There’s no way they didn’t see that, boss.”

“I know. Go! Everyone, Quinjet now! Run! Wheels up in five” Tony ordered, running around frantically. “Less than five! Now!”

He reminded Steve of a tiny little ant trying to avoid the soles of a big black boot. Steve rubbed his toe into the carpet and watched it smash the fibers. It would be so easy...time slowed as Tony zigzagged in desperate patterns all around him...so easy, because Steve was the one wearing the boots.

“When Captain America throws his mighty shield…” Bucky’s raspy singing voice floated across the almost empty room, and Steve tried to remember how Bucky’s stubble had felt when they’d kissed before they’d gotten off the Quinjet in Kazakhstan.

It had felt rough on his cheek, and they’d laughed when Bucky had scratched Steve’s skin on purpose. Bucky Barnes had smiled Steve’s favorite toothy smile and kissed the sore spot, before whispering, “Something to remember me by.”

Steve let his fingers drift up to his unmarred cheek as the blast door opened and all of them charging in to surround Bucky...seven wronged souls coming to bear witness.

“...All those who choose to oppose his shield must yield…” Bucky’s arms and legs started moving like he was making a snow angel in the first fluffy snowfall in Brooklyn, but the arm was malfunctioning and jerking in uneven strokes. Every twitch made Steve wish for fresh snow, so they could lie together and move their arms in ways that didn’t hurt. They’d made snow angels every year since they were thirteen years old, always trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues as they’d smiled. Later, they’d let their snow covered tongues mingle together to melt every flake. Now, Steve wanted to build a snow fort together and climb inside to tell Bucky how sorry he was. Under their _own_ dome of ice, on their own terms for the very first time, Steve would ask Bucky to tell him all about Nine Inch Nails.

Sergei Stoletovto shook a huge metal pipe at the camera, and vengeance poured off his tongue. “I warned you! I told you we would end him!”

Two others hauled Bucky to his knees and he was still laughing and singing, and Steve knew...neither of them was going to make it.

“Steve, get up! We have to go!” Tony tried to make Steve move, yanking and pulling on his arm, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

“...If he’s led to a fight and a duel is due, then the red, white and blue will come through…”

Bucky stopped laughing and suddenly looked directly into the camera. He looked like himself and that scared Steve more than anything that had come before. As the hand of judgement walked behind him, Bucky smiled sadly and with absolute clarity said, “I love you, Steve. Stay outta the ice this time, okay punk?”

“No. Tony, no…” Steve grabbed Tony’s wrist, as Sergei pulled the metal bar back in a wide swing.

Bucky blew out a long breath and sang the last line like a prayer, before allowing his eyes to close. “...when Captain America throws his mighty shi…”

“No!” Steve screamed, as metal crashed full force into the base of Bucky’s skull and the screen went black. “No!”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
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> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art and Writing here
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> Thank you so much for reading! XOXOXO! We LOVE kudos, comments and talking about our sad boys, so feel free to say hello. Both of us are also fans of Stucky cuddles, smooches, butt grabs, and kittens...so stick with us through the sadness. Everything can't be horrible (we promise).


	4. Absinthe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to our collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang  
> [capreversebb](https://capreversebb.tumblr.com)  
> The final chapter will be posted May 20th along with another drawing by Lorien (drjezdzany).  
> Thank you for reading and sticking with us on our Steve and Bucky emotional rollercoaster (Tony is his own ride). As promised, a rollercoaster can't be all downhill, so we hope you enjoy Chapter 4's ride. Hugs :)
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> Please be aware, this story deals with dark subject matter in a few places (specifically relating to passive self-harm, torture, and mentions of suicide). If you're unsure about this, or need clarification on any of the tags, feel free to contact either one of us on tumblr (links in the end notes).

                                          

 

 

On the flight to Ukraine, Natasha was pushing the Quinjet harder than she ever had before. The sonic boom that had rolled out behind them, when she’d accelerated to Mach 2, must have scared every New Yorker within thirty miles; and even though Steve couldn’t hear the explosive noise echoing out behind them, he _knew_ it was the sound of his Seventh Seal. Seven red strands of licorice squeezed tightly in a hand until they melted. Seven red strands of licorice deconstructed into three long strings. Three red strands twisted over and under until they curved into a circle. When Steve looked down at the bracelet around his wrist, he heard the sound of trumpets foreshadowed in the distance.

Watching Natasha, while she focused on the sky whizzing past at impossible speeds, Steve pulled his knees up to his chest in the copilot seat. It was the same position Bucky had been in three days before, trying to steal Clint’s sunglasses with his feet propped up on the side window. He’d been wearing socks. Steve liked to pull off Bucky’s socks by the toes at the end of the day, stretching and stretching them until they finally popped off. He didn’t know why, but it always made Bucky laugh. He liked making Bucky laugh. Now Clint was stuck in a hospital bed, and Bucky wasn’t wearing socks.

Steve _knew_ ...he _knew_ he was losing it. If a person knows they’re going insane but embraces it, is it still considered insanity? Or is it a decision?

 

_And when he had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven_

_about the space of half an hour.     Revelation 8:1_

 

There was no arguing behind him, no dissenting opinions, no permission requested from Ross to go anywhere near Ukraine (or anywhere, actually). No noise at all. It was calm. As Steve waited for the first trumpet to sound, he allowed the voice of the ugliest bully from his childhood to float across his mind...

Sister Alice had been the prettiest nun. She’d had strawberry blonde hair that sometimes snuck out of the edges of her habit after a long day in the soup kitchen, or on hot summer days in the tiny classroom in the back of St. Michael’s, when she’d wipe the sweat off her brow. She’d been the prettiest nun, with her long slender neck and emerald green eyes, but Steve had hated her, because she’d been the ugliest on the inside. It had always seemed to give her special pleasure to scare all the children with tales of the seven deadly sins and God’s swift and just punishment for naughty boys and girls; kneeling down to whisper in their impressionable ears that their dirty thoughts were going to send them straight to hell. Maybe she’d been the first bully Steve had really gone toe to toe with. He’d been nine-years-old when he’d leap out of his desk, and told her to get away from Harry Murphy, after she’d whacked his knuckles with a ruler for whispering during her lesson about Christ’s great sacrifice. When she’d smacked Steve’s knuckles for his defiance, he’d looked her right in those pretty green eyes and had said, “God doesn’t like bullies.” He’d never been afraid of Sister Alice, only the stories that had poured from her pretty pink lips.

Now, as her tales of fire and brimstone chased behind the Quinjet, Steve could almost feel Bucky in the copilot seat with him. Steve wondered if Bucky’d had any inkling three days ago, flying across this same expanse of water, that he’d been heading towards Sergei Stoletovto’s idea of just punishment for The Winter Soldier’s sins? Sister Alice would probably be smiling if she weren’t long dead...

When they’d first met, Bucky had never once in his twelve years set foot in a Catholic church; and he hadn’t had any desire to start. It had taken a whole year of begging to get James Buchanan Barnes to put on a tie and walk through the big stone archway. The only reason he’d given in was because it had been Christmas Eve, and he’d gotten sick of Steve whining and saying things like, “It’s God’s birthday for Christ’s sake, Buck, it’s not gonna kill ya.” Plus, Steve had told him that they always passed out sugar cookies after the mass (which had been a bold faced lie). Bucky’d rolled his eyes, and had snapped, “these cookies better be worth it,” as he’d begrudgingly tied a perfect Windsor knot in his one and only tie. Steve had never seen Bucky wear a tie before, and when he’d watched his lanky hands loop the navy cloth over and under it had made him feel something completely new below his belt. They’d walked down the crooked Brooklyn sidewalk, each holding one of Sarah’s arms, so she wouldn’t slip in the fresh layer of snow, and Steve had thought about Sister Alice’s whispers...and then had quickly realized he didn’t care.

Bucky had convinced Steve to sit in the very back pew, while Sarah sat up front with her friend Bonny. Despite the hundreds of burning candles, the perfectly harmonized choir, and the pipe organ echoing across the flying buttresses, creating the perfect mood for the celebration of the birth of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Bucky’d spent the entire service making paper airplanes out of the special leaflets with the words to all the Christmas carols. Steve had tried to be good...he really had...but when one had landed on the wide brim of an old lady’s hat, Steve had snorted during the chorus of ‘Silent Night’. Sister Alice had stormed over, one tendril of strawberry blonde hair sneaking out behind her ear, and had kicked Bucky out the back door into the snow. Then, she’d grabbed Steve by the ear and had marched him right up the center aisle, past the evergreen garlands and red velvet bows looped over the ends of the pews, to his mother. On Christmas Eve, in front of Father Flanagan, The Virgin Mary, and sweet baby Jesus himself, Sister Alice the bully had made an example of him. Sitting next to his mortified mother, Steve had looked up at Christ hanging on his crucifix, with his crown of thorns and the hole in his side, and had known that he loved Bucky Barnes a whole lot more than ‘Oh, Holy Night.’

For three years, Sister Alice had sneered at Bucky whenever he’d dared to set foot on the sacred grounds of St. Michael’s. Even when he’d been helping Steve scrub disgusting pots after Thanksgiving dinner in the soup kitchen, or he’d bend down to teach the little ones how to tie their shoes after Sunday School, or when he’d carried all of the heavy flower arrangements to the front of the church for Jerry Hanlon’s funeral, she’d kept right on sneering. But it had been that magical summer, when Bucky’d started sucking on Steve’s neck, that had pushed her right over the edge. Naughty Bucky Barnes had gotten a real kick out of walking Steve to church, acting like a real gentleman with his confident swagger and a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth, before he’d casually steer Steve into the alley before they’d made the final turn to the arched doorway. He’d push Steve back against the smooth stone wall of St. Michael’s, and slide his hand into Steve’s pants, before he’d go in for confession. Sister Alice had caught them that summer, when they’d been strolling out of the alley with Steve’s cheeks all pink and Bucky wiping the back of his hand across his lips. Steve had sworn her eyes had looked like the archangel Uriel himself, blocking the gates to heaven with his flaming sword, and she’d hissed that they were both going straight to hell before she’d turned her back on them. But Steve hadn’t been afraid, he’d known even then that he’d proudly stand before God and declare his love for Bucky. Sister Alice could tell Steve that he was gonna rot in the pit all she wanted...he’d known in his heart that he’d been right with God. And when Steve had walked into that confessional, he’d never once asked for forgiveness...

In the quiet of the jet, Steve almost laughed. If Sister Alice could’ve known that the skinny teenager getting sucked-off in the church alley by Bucky Barnes would grow up to be the big, strong symbol of American morals, she probably would have fallen over dead right then and there. And now here Steve was, about to unleash hell on Earth in god’s stead, to get back the cocky boy who’d knelt before him with an open mouth on Sister Alice’s hallowed ground. That did make Steve laugh, and when he looked out the cockpit window he could see her in the clouds, with one loose curl of strawberry hair blowing in the wind, crucified upside down like a criminal…

Steve was losing it. He was.

The sound of The Avengers rose up behind him as the team prepared, and Steve let his boots fall back onto the floor. Tony was organizing the plan, Tony was gathering the intel on the location, Tony was strategizing the fastest way to get to Bucky...if he was even still there. Dr. Cho and a full medical team were strapped in tight, looking scared shitless by the impossible speed that Natasha was flying across the Atlantic. To be honest, it was the fastest Steve had ever flown too, and he could almost imagine that he had giant white wings pushing out above his scapulas, and ripping through the suit, to carry him to Bucky even faster. He raised his left arm beside him, bending his hand to catch and imaginary slip stream, and hoped it wasn’t all for nothing...that they weren’t racing to retrieve a body.

Seven strands of red licorice squeezed in his hand until they’d melted. Seven strands of licorice deconstructed into three long strings…

 

_And the seven angels which had the seven trumpets_

_prepared themselves to sound.     Revelation 8:6_

*****

  


“FRIDAY, how many targets left inside?” Tony’s voice crackled through the comms, as Steve hit another mercenary with his shield. After they’d taken out the first batch in Kazakhstan, Sergei had obviously restocked. Maybe it was anger, maybe it was fear, maybe it was insanity, but Steve was blasting through them like they were made of paper; nameless, faceless, paper dolls trying to stop him from getting to closer to Bucky.

“I’m picking up four in the hallway behind the exterior door, boss. Seven heat signatures in the main room that leads to the southern stairwell that will get you to the bottom of the silo. Five in defensive positions at the bottom, and one in the control room at the top of the narrow stairs next to the blast door.”

Steve heard Tony’s repulsors blowing everything to hell on the other side of the building, and the ground rumbled with each hit. They were prepared this time. Natasha had destroyed those fucking sonic weapons on their approach, so this was an entirely different scene than the mess in Kazakhstan. Tony had learned his lesson and was obliterating everything with the new Mark 47. It was glorious.

“Rogers, you clear in the back?” Tony yelled, before a giant fireball cleared the roofline. Steve loved the look of it.

 

_The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood,_

_and they were cast upon the earth…     Revelation 8:7_

 

Suddenly two mercenaries fell off the roof above Steve’s head and landed with a thud in front of him; both with dead eyes that looked like black buttons. Paper dolls and button eyes, toys for an angry boy to destroy after he’d lost his favorite stuffed bunny. T’Challa silently landed next to Steve from the one story roof above, another button-eyed mercenary falling off behind him.

“The roof is clear,” T’Challa said, nodding at the lock on the rear door of the building. “Shall we proceed?”

They were southwest of Odessa, at the far end of a freight harbor that connected to the Black Sea. They’d been right about the sea water and absolutely nothing else. From the air it looked like a warehouse, just like all the other warehouses situated to the east, but it was anything but below ground level. FRIDAY’s scan showed a maze of tunnels and stairwells, plus an elaborate pumping system that allowed the silo to drop down nine stories into the earth. Based on the video feed, they were guessing that Bucky was being held at the bottom of the silo, but they wouldn’t know anything for sure until they got to the bottom of those nine flights of stairs.

“Entry point clear. On my signal,” Steve responded, as T’Challa raised his clawed hand above the lock. There would be more paper dolls on the other side of that door, and Steve looked forward to burning them down to nothing with a match. They’d burnt Bucky’s feet with a blowtorch...maybe Steve should’ve brought a blowtorch of his very own. He could vaporize paper with a blowtorch...

He nodded, and T’Challa disabled the lock with one swipe, sending orange sparks onto the ground. They threw open the door, and Steve shot the first target in the neck, before T’Challa charged down the narrow hallway and took out the other three; four dolls in four seconds. He almost laughed watching T’Challa stepping over the dead bodies, because apparently the power of Steve’s apocalyptic rage was contagious. The image of Black Panther with a nice set of black angel wings extended over his cat ears, as he blew his shiny golden trumpet, was completely absurd...but Steve was losing it...so why not?

They bracketed the double doors that led to the main room, that would lead to the next set of doors, that would lead to the stairs, that would lead to the cockroaches at the bottom, that would lead to the door, that might lead to Bucky...or might lead to nothing. There was an old woman who swallowed a fly...perhaps she’ll die.

“Wilson, you almost here?” T’Challa’s voice was clear and strong. Steve was so grateful that he was here.

“On our way. Ran into a little trouble with a heavy machine gun, but Wanda tossed it into the harbor.” Sam’s wings folded inwards as his silhouette breached the entry, and Wanda dropped behind him; her cloud of red softening her landing and giving Falcon’s edges a red sheen. Sam would look perfect playing a trumpet; maybe leaning against a light pole in downtown Detroit...the energy of Motown feeding his holy power as steam rose up from the sewers to surround his winged form.

Steve smiled, as Sam and Wanda prepared for what was coming next...he smiled, because he was losing it.

“Have I mentioned how nice it is having this girl back?” Sam chuckled. “I get to sit back, while she throws all the bad guys two-hundred feet offshore. Man, that’s like a vacation.”

If they’d waited for Wanda the first time, this never would have happened. Wanda was a greater sum than the rest of them put together. Wanda was her own red seal.

“Hey, Steve.” Sam’s eyes told the story; he was just as scared as Steve was. There were no more attempts to lighten the mood, as he muttered, “You okay, man?”

Steve looked at the blood covering the front of his stealth suit, and the answer was pretty fucking clear. He knew what Bucky would say. _“Why’d you make that nice lady dry clean your uniform, if you’re just gonna mess it up in five seconds?”_  Well, that was a very good question. Steve sniffed, and tried to focus by running his hand around the curved edge of the red, white, and blue shield, but he kept hearing Bucky’s voice… _”I know you like to wear that stealth suit ‘cause it looks cooler...and I agree, it’s sexy as hell...but when you pair it with that shield it kinda defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”_

“Steve, you ready to do this?”

Sam’s voice made him jump, but he still managed to shake his head affirmative because time mattered. If Bucky was still alive…

“Good, then let’s go get your boy.”

Sometimes a word triggers something deep inside. Whether those words were welded to your neurons by evil hands, or lovingly stitched to your being like a patchwork quilt of memories, one word can change everything. Was Bucky still his boy? Was he? Steve’s mind zoomed in on the hallway around him; the light filtering through the open doorway, the lumps of black on the floor, the way the fluorescent light flickered and buzzed above his head, and he was suddenly ready to find out either way. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Tony?” Steve let what was left of the Captain take command. “Status?”

“Jesus, that’s a lot of dead guys,” he responded. “Are we just killing everybody? I’m pretty sure that violates every sentence in The Accords. Wanda, you _actually_ threw eighteen bad guys in the water!? It looks like bobbing for bad guys!” Something exploded on the other side of the warehouse, before Tony asked, “FRIDAY, you got a signature on Bucky yet?”

“Still can’t scan past the silo walls, boss. But, since we cut the power, I’ve got no movement in or out of the blast door. I estimate it weighs over two-thousand pounds so there’s no way they can move it without power. That’s _got_ to be where they’re holding him.”

“Unless he’s…” Steve’s brain kept glitching. He couldn’t help it.

“Steve. Stop.” Natasha’s voice was firm over the comms, as she commanded, “Focus.”

Focus on what? That it had been almost four hours since he’d watched Bucky get the back of his head smashed by a metal bar? That they could have moved him anywhere in that amount of time? That in four hours, what was left of Bucky could already be room temperature?

Tony’s voice snapped him back. “Okay. Hit it. I’m coming in hot right behind you. Romanoff, be ready to bring the Quinjet down for evac as soon as I give the all clear, and let’s try _not_ to get it blown up this time. Lang, you’re on perimeter, watch her back. If that jet explodes, I’m blaming you. Alert the medical team. We’re going in.”

 

_And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was_

_cast into the_ _sea: and the third part of the sea became blood.    Revelation 8:8_

 

Steve lifted the shield and shoved through the steel doors. It appeared to be a cafeteria, but as he protected Wanda from the incoming barrage of bullets, all he could see was red. It wasn’t the red ribbons of Wanda’s power throwing the men against the walls; it was something thick, bubbling up from deep inside his gut. Steve counted six paper dolls slammed against the walls and he wished Wanda would just crumple them up instead of waiting for Sam and T’Challa to take them out one by one. She could crush them down to nothing with one thought, but it wasn’t in her nature. He pressed forward through the parting sea of red and searched for the seventh man; mentally daring him to show his face. T’Challa flung something across the room into a long table, and the seventh man jumped up and revealed himself. He snarled, as he leveled a pistol at Sam’s back.

Hail, fire, and blood poured down all around them; the third angel giving permission with the sound of his trumpet, for Steve to unleash Wormwood. He might not believe in god anymore, but every single one of Sister Alice’s terrifying Sunday School lessons were woven through him like tangled green fingers, and her words were suddenly as real as the gun pointed at Sam.

 

_And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from Heaven, blazing as if it were a lamp, and it fell upon_

_the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters; And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and_

_the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters,_

_because they were_ _made bitter.     Revelation 8:10-11_

 

Steve wasn’t sure if he was the star, or the bitter water, or a man destined to die from consuming the green liquor without the crucial sugarcube balanced on a metal slotted spoon...or all three...and he didn’t fucking care. He’d always hated Sister Alice and her tales of sin and fear that had made him cry late at night when he’d been eight years old. But in this heinous moment, Steve was thankful for her harsh wooden ruler, and the purple bruises that had graced his knuckles until he’d memorized the verses; that knowledge helped Steve to understand exactly what he’d become.

He threw the shield as hard as he could at the man aiming his gun at Sam...at _all_ the men of the Earth and everything they’d done to betray him...and it slammed so viciously into the center of his chest that he flew back six feet against the wall. Steve marveled at the way the metal stuck there, horizontal, so the dying man had a perfect view of the red, white and blue.

 

_“I thought you were gonna cut off Stark’s head with that shield Steve, I know he blew off my arm, but decapitation’s_

_a little over the top, don’t you think?”_

 

Wanda’s magic dissipated as he hovered there for a second, staring down in shock at Captain America’s shield embedded underneath his sternum. It was just like the pool table, but there wasn’t an eight ball...there was...a man. When he finally slumped sideways and hit the floor, Steve wondered if the river of bitter blood rising up around the edges of the shield would be enough to satiate his rage. The puddle of blood expanded and it turned green before Steve’s very eyes.

When he’d smashed the shield into Tony’s chest, he’d known the armor would protect him. When he’d aimed the shield at the seventh man, and thrown it hard enough to smash through skin and bone, Steve had known there was no armor. He’d known, and he’d done it anyway. He was the star.

 

_“I love you, Steve. Stay outta the ice this time, okay punk?”_

 

Maybe this time, Steve was aiming his plane towards Sister Alice’s fire and brimstone instead.

Wanda followed Steve’s eyes, rubbing her slim fingers together as she stepped towards him. She spoke quietly but firmly, as she said, “Vengeance won’t get you where you need to go.”

“And where exactly do I need to go?” Steve hissed. Because where the fuck _would_ he go if Bucky was dead at the bottom of those stairs?

She raised her eyes slowly then touched his wrist, letting her fingers overlap the red cotton circle as she patiently waited for Steve to look at her. And when he finally did, she whispered, “To the future.”

 

_“Come on, man! It’s my last night. Gotta get you cleaned up.”_

_“Why? Where are we going?”_

_“The future.”_

 

“What did you just say?” Steve felt the motion of Bucky flipping the newspaper into his tiny hands, and smelled ripe garbage like they were both walking next to the dumpster...

“But, Steven,” Wanda continued, before releasing her hold, “you’ll never make it there if you keep looking south.”

From somewhere behind him, T’Challa interrupted the storm inside Steve’s head, and said, “We need to move.”

T’Challa was right. They _did_ need to move. Forward. He needed to move forward. Wanda turned her back, and Steve felt dizzy; a compass spinning with the loss of its magnetic pole.

To the future...

“Jesus Christ, Steve. What the hell did you do?” Sam yelled, as he ran up and saw the seventh man. His brown eyes were huge as he tracked the river of blood running across the floor.

Steve didn’t answer as he pushed past him, stepping right in the dead man’s blood. If Bucky was dead he had no _future_ ! If Bucky was alive he still didn’t know if he had a _fucking future_ ! Pressing his black boot against the man’s stomach, he yanked the shield out of his chest with a sickening squelch. Steve didn’t recognize him. He was just a hired gun. But this man _chose_ to protect Sergei Stoletovto; a man who’d shoved a curved needle deep into the meat of Bucky’s back just for the agony it had created, a man who’d pulled the stitches so tight that the skin underneath had turned purple. This man had taken money, so Sergei Stoletovto could punch Bucky in the face over, and over, and over, for something The Soldier had done on August 23, 1973, when he hadn’t even known his own name! Steve looked at this man’s face, whose wallet was full of Bucky’s blood, and felt no remorse for destroying him.

None.

When he turned his back on the seventh dead man, Steve swiped his gloved hand across the bloody shield and flung the drops against the wall; bitterness dripping down the metal like unsweetened absinthe down the back of Steve’s throat.

 

_“I don’t want your fucking cake, Steve!”_

 

“Are you sure you can proceed, _Captain Rogers_?” T’Challa asked, with intent. His hand landed in the middle of Steve’s chest.

Setting his jaw, Steve stared at his black mask. _Captain_ Rogers. Captain America. Captain America, here to punch Hitler in the face. Most of the blood was still stuck to the shield; smeared in a crescent moon across the white star.

“Steve...” Sam looked worried. He should.

“I know. We have to move,” Steve nodded at T’Challa’s hand as he stepped backwards. “Tony, where the hell are you?”  

“Right here.” Tony stepped through the doorway and gestured at the destruction in front of him. Tables and chairs were flipped everywhere, and a trail of dead guys were littered throughout. “Goddamn, it looks like The Hulk came through here, or maybe Freddy Krueger. Jesus christ, remind me never to let any of you watch ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’. Shit! We’re gonna be in so much trouble with Daddy Ross, whatever, fuck that guy. FRIDAY, what do we got left?”

“Nine flights down: one on the landing at level two with an automatic weapon, two crouched behind the stairs to the left with handguns, one guarding the blast door, one at the bottom of the control room stairs, one in the control room.”

“Got it, piece of cake. Move your asses.” Tony made shooing motions with his arms then blasted the door.

Sam shook his head, as Tony took point. “You didn’t need to do that, man. It was unlocked.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun.”

               

 

Tony killed Arturo Barreda with his unibeam, after he’d uselessly unloaded his weapon at the Iron Man armor on the third level landing. _The Soldier_ had killed Barreda’s Uncle, not Bucky Barnes, but Arturo had pushed a lit cigar against _Bucky’s_ arm anyway. He deserved that hole in his chest. Steve pushed around Tony, jumping over the railing to land in front of Yegor Orlov and Dante Leonard, who were crouched behind the stairs. Yes, The Soldier had robbed them of their loved ones, but they’d laughed as the blowtorch dug a deep channel into the side of Bucky’s foot. After disarming them, Steve screamed, “He didn’t know what he was doing! It wasn’t his fault!” before breaking both of their necks.

Steve stared at their bodies for a second, until he heard T’Challa punch Erik Neumann in the face. He dropped like a sack of potatoes in front of the blast door; he _was_ just a man after all. Erik Neumann had lost his best friend in Bucharest...to Bucky. Steve would let Erik Neumann live.

Sam had Susan Matthews pinned against the wall, and she was screaming and swearing while futilely kicking her legs at him. This was the one that had enjoyed choking Bucky with water and had kept shoving that fucking cattle prod down his pants. Susan Matthews had lost her sister under a bus that flipped over because of The Soldier. Steve pulled out his pistol and shot her between the eyes.

“Fuck!” Sam yelled, as he dropped her body. “Fuck!”

Tony flew across the shaft and exploded the access wall to the control room, while Sam stared at him, and T’Challa stared at him, and Wanda shook her head. But Steve could only stare at the hole in the wall and swallow, as the entire room turned green, while he waited for Tony to bring out the final man.

 

_And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice,_

_woe, woe, woe, to the inhabiters of the earth…      Revelation 8:13_

 

Sergei stumbled out, with his twisted scar, and his even more twisted mind, and Tony pushed him down the narrow stairs. This was the man who’d held Bucky up while Yegor Orlov had whipped him until the skin was laying open like the shredded pages of a book left out in the rain. This was the man who’d held Bucky down while Dante Leonard had ripped off his toenails. This was the man who’d stuck a knife into Bucky’s side with a smile on his face.

“Murderers! Just like your comrade!” Sergei yelled, as Tony pushed him down the final steps towards Steve.

They had to step over Susan Matthews body, and as he lifted up his foot, Tony retracted the helmet and scoffed, “Well, guess we don’t need handcuffs for her.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Sam snapped. He was glaring; disappointed in the haze of green.

“Look at you! You are no better than your soldier!” He was shouting in his thick Russian accent, each hard vowel launching spit into the air, and Steve didn’t care. This was the man who took Bucky.

Wanda pressed her hand against the blast door and closed her eyes, and tendrils started crawling out of her fingertips to form organic patterns around the curve of the wall. Steve watched as they merged into three long lines that began overlapping in a pattern originated by much smaller hands. The braid tightened and looped into a circle, as Steve’s green slowly gave way to red, before she allowed everything to dissipate...

Killing Susan Matthews didn’t change what was on the other side of that door; it didn’t change the reality that Bucky might never hold him again, or kiss him, or tease him...

 

_“You’ve been awake in this century for way longer than me, Steve. How can you still not know who Chuck Norris is?_

_I have so many jokes, and you’re stealing all the fun with your ignorance.”_

 

If Steve killed Sergei Stoletovto, it wouldn’t change what was on the other side of that door.

Her eyes were glowing red when Wanda turned around, and like she’d flipped a switch, Steve immediately saw Howard’s flying car hovering above the stage for a second before it fell, a giant metal Earth towering far above the crowd, and he could smell the aroma of peanuts floating through the air. But most importantly, standing in the center of it all he saw a beautiful boy, in his freshly pressed uniform, pretending to be a man.

 

_“Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs.”_

 

“Steve, what do you want me to do?”

“What?” The nightmare came back into view, and Wanda turned away.

Tony was holding Sergei by the neck and giving Steve permission. It would just take one motion of Steve’s arm...of Captain America’s arm...to end him.

 

_“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”_

 

Steve took a deep breath...he could still smell the peanuts...then walked to where Tony had Sergei pinned. He looked deep into his iris, like maybe that could make Steve understand, but the deeper he looked, the more he realized that he couldn’t see paper, or black buttons, or bitter green liquor dripping all over his scarred face... He was just a man who’d lost someone he’d loved, and had allowed vengeance to overtake him. Steve’s shield was _dripping_ with bitter vengeance...there were four bodies in the room that proved it... it was splattered across his uniform, it had latched onto his hind-brain, and he felt sick. Watching Sergei’s face contorting as he snarled, Steve realized that Sergei’s brother could have been the one person who’d added the sugar to his life, the loved one who’d made the taste of his existence palatable. Steve dropped the shield, because this was not the future he wanted.

 

_And to them it was given that they should not kill them, but that they should be tormented_

_five months: and their_ _torment was the torment of a scorpion, when he striketh a man.    Revelation 9:5_

 

So Steve listened to Bucky for once...to the frightened soldier who’d saluted him in the middle of the World’s Fair...and said, “We’re taking him in.”

“What?” Tony slammed Sergei’s head against the wall...twice. “Did you just say what I think you just said? ‘Cause Susan over there, you know, with the bullet in her brain, she tells a different story.”

“Steven?” T’Challa’s voice was low, almost imperceptible, as he asked, “Are you sure?”

“Take him, before I change my mind.”

When T’Challa shoved him past, Sergei spit in Steve’s face, and growled, “I hope you like what you find in there _Captain_. It’s everything that monster deserved.”

 

_“Hey Steve, put these oil palm fruits in your pocket. I wanna feed them to Shuri’s parrot, they’re his_

_favorite. You know, he’s almost ready to be released back into the jungle.”_

 

“FRIDAY, any stragglers?” Tony stepped up behind him, and put his hand in the center of Steve’s back. Maybe it was the only thing that kept him standing, because they were looking at the rusty blast door...

 

_“You know I dream about them, Steve. Every single person I murdered.”_

 

“No boss, all clear.”

 

_“I don’t know if I’m good for you.”_

 

Tony nodded at Steve, before putting his helmet back up. He centered himself in front of the door, and asked, “Wilson, you done dealing with that prick?”

“Yeah, got it.” Sam dragged Erik Neumann’s unconscious body towards the bottom of the staircase and zip tied his arms.

“Okay then. Romanoff, bring it down. Wanda, contain the explosion so it doesn’t hit him. I’m blasting the door.”

“Steve, you gotta back up.” Sam tugged on his arm, but he couldn’t really hear him. Maybe the ice was forming around him already?

 

_“You’ve always been my Stevie.”_

 

But he wasn’t anymore, was he? He hadn’t been _Stevie Rogers_ in a very long time, and he was a complete fool for thinking that he was.

The door. The door that determined everything. He was afraid the only sound behind that hideous metal door would be silence; that Bucky’s voice wouldn’t be there to make him laugh, or to tease him when he took himself too seriously, or to moan in his ear when Steve rolled his hips just right. What if there was only silence...like the ice? What if this was just like last time? What if this was the last few minutes before he was gone?

 

_“Remember that time I made you ride the cyclone?”_

 

Tony hit it with both repulsors and the unibeam, and the sound of the massive door blasting inward echoed to the very top of the missile silo. The vibration felt like metal claws were tearing jagged cuts into every part of Steve that was ever bright; the remnants of who he used to be curling up in spirals then shrinking down to nothing. Wanda’s forcefield held the pieces of smouldering metal up in the air so they hovered in the center of the octagon, oddly peaceful surrounded by fire and smoke, in her sphere of red.

Bucky was lying on his side with his back to the door.

There was so much blood.

Steve closed his eyes as the star became a black hole.

*****

  


There are moments in time, however jagged your history, that define who you are and who you will become: meeting a brown haired boy with a dimpled chin in the empty lot by Mr. Tanner’s General Store, sealing the gooey ends of a licorice braid around the love of your life’s wrist, watching a blue coat disappearing into the echo of his scream beneath you, a blinding expanse of white coming towards you at high speed...the feeling of ice solidifying your flesh.

Seeing Bucky on the floor, his back riddled with stitches and half-healed lashes that created a roadmap of the things he’d allowed himself to be subjected to...and _knowing_ that each scabbed line was something he’d felt he deserved...tore Steve’s heart out through his throat. Because Steve _had_ him! Steve had Bucky safe in a humid jungle where his chocolate hair had curled and bent in new and mysterious ways, safe in turquoise pools of flowing water where he’d allowed Steve to run his hands over unfamiliar muscles and metal, safe in their new apartment where they’d held one another under blue cotton sheets...Steve _had_ him, and he _still_ wasn’t there to catch him.

It took three steps for Steve to collapse onto his knees behind Bucky’s bloody back. Three steps for him to smell the acrid odor of burnt flesh. Three steps to see the huge pool of blood around the back of Bucky’s head. Three steps to see how grey he was. It took three steps for him to get the courage to rip off his gloves and touch his fingers to Bucky’s shoulder and hip. Three steps to find out his future.

Steve held his breath.

 

_“How can you love me like this, Steve? I’m a monster. Look at me! I’m not the man I was, and I never will be.”_

 

The moment his fingers curled over the top of Bucky’s shoulder, slipping in the coagulated blood from a slice deep enough to see muscle, Steve’s heart started beating again.

He was warm.

Steve squeezed his hip, and cried, “Bucky?”

The response was sudden and frightening. He jolted and flipped onto his back, eyes wide, staring at Steve like he was a ghost.

“Natasha, we’ve got him. Oh my god, we’ve got him.” Tony yelled into the comms, before ordering, “Lang, cover us when we pull him out.”

“I told you to leave!” Bucky screamed, before skittering backwards until he hit the wall. “I don’t want your salt!” His eyes rapidly moved across each person standing behind Steve, then he dragged the broken metal arm around his bent knees. Steve whimpered, as he saw how deeply the burns were carved into his flesh. There were sparking wires, and metal bolts and bone. He could see his bones.

“I see you’ve brought your demons,” Bucky laughed, as a line of red spit poured from the side of his mouth in a long skinny strand.

 

_“Open your mouth and hold the end, but don’t bite it...”_

 

Steve tried to slide towards him, crawling desperately on his knees, but as soon as he moved Bucky screamed, “Do your worst!” before his eyes glazed over and his voice shifted to something robotic. “November 11, 1943: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes lies to Steven Grant Rogers about the changes he can feel happening inside of his body, repeatedly denying that Zola’s experiments had any effect.”

Every part of Steve wanted to scoop him up and make it better. My god, what had they done to him? Bucky jerked his head to peer over Steve’s shoulder at Sam, then spoke in that same frightening monotone. “October 15, 2013: The Winter Soldier attempts to neutralize Sam Wilson by kicking him off the edge of a Helicarrier. Attempt failed.”

His hair was matted, it was matted with blood around his neck. They’d smashed his head...they’d smashed...

Tony’s metallic footsteps echoed around the cell, as he quietly said, “Steve, we’ve gotta get him out of here. Now. This has to be...”

“We shouldn’t all be in here,” Wanda interrupted. She was watching Bucky...watching and tipping her head. “It’s too much for him.”

“She’s right,” Tony touched Steve’s shoulder as he retracted his helmet, then commanded, “I’ll stay. Everyone else, get to the jet. Brief Cho on what to expect.”

His arm was falling off...Steve could tell...it was barely hanging on...

Bucky lowered his chin, and stared at Tony with dead eyes. He looked like a ghost...a pale, grey ghost with the residual emotion of death shrouding him when he spoke. “December 16, 1991. The Winter Soldier assassinates Howard and Maria Stark in order to steal scientific secrets from SHIELD. The Starks are survived by their only son, Tony Stark, aka Iron Man.”

They’d broken him...Steve grabbed at Tony’s leg, at Iron Man’s leg, because they’d broken Steve too. “Steve, we’ve gotta make this happen, his leg isn’t tied off, and his arm…”

There was a sudden hiss as Bucky tried to stand, but he listed to the left and stumbled. Steve somehow managed to get up and catch him by the waist...and jesus christ, he was touching Bucky, he was real...but he was so cold, and Steve didn’t know where to grab him. He didn’t want to hurt him, and his entire pant leg was wet with blood, and he…

“You have to stop rescuing me, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, as his head twitched hard enough that Steve heard vertebra crack. “Every time you rescue me, you destroy yourself.”

What? No! They were getting out of here right fucking now! He was bleeding and....they had to go! “C’mon Buck, please. I’m gonna carry you. I’m gonna carry you out of here, baby.” Steve tried to grab Bucky somewhere that wasn’t open and gaping, but there was nowhere...

“No! Leave me!” Bucky screamed, as he struggled backwards.

Steve held him by his belt loops and yanked him towards his chest. “You didn’t leave me, and I’m not leaving you! Not without you! Don’t you remember?”  

“Clint’s _dead_ because of me! I’m right where I belong!” The motion was so sudden when Bucky twisted away, and snarled, “I’m home!” that Steve didn’t even realize he’d punched him with his flesh hand until the pain hit.

Standing there in shock as blood poured out of his broken nose, Steve had never felt so lost. Bucky slithered around the wall away from him, slamming his shoulder against each corner of the octagon and leaving pieces of burnt flesh stuck to the wall in his wake.

“Clint’s not dead, Bucky,” Steve said, quietly.

“Liar! They’re all dead!”

He was about to argue, to try to convince Bucky how wrong he was, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the broken nose, and the taste of coppery blood as it ran down the back of his throat, or maybe it was the realization that Bucky wasn’t going to kneel down with a dirty white tank top and kiss Steve through the blood this time. Maybe it was because he realized that the boy who’d said, ‘ _you’ve always been my Stevie_ ’ behind St. Michael’s, was one of the dead.

“I don’t know what to do…” Steve turned to Tony, because he didn’t know how to fix this, and he realized that he never did.

Steve didn’t have to say a word; he didn’t have to ask, or justify, or plead. Tony simply stepped around him and approached Bucky where he was huddled against the wall.

“Hey, Bucky.” Tony said, all casual and carefree; like he saw Bucky on a beautiful Saturday afternoon playing soccer in the park, and jogged over to say ‘hello’.

“I killed your family,” Bucky moaned. “Your mother was wearing an iridescent cream suit when I strangled her.”

“Yeah, you did. But that was a long time ago.”

“It feels like yesterday,” he whimpered, and Steve just wanted to hold him...to wrap his arms around him and keep him warm... but he walked backwards towards the hole in the silo wall instead.

“Clint’s in the hospital, Bucky. He said to tell you you’re a dumbass. We need to get you out of this nightmare so you can go see him. He’s been a whiny little bitch about his broken arm. When you show him this mess…” Tony pointed at Bucky’s burnt shoulder. “...he’s gonna shut right up.”

A violent spasm ran up Bucky’s side and his head hit the wall. Steve tripped over a twisted piece of metal, and the noise drew Bucky’s attention. He shook his head and stared right at Steve. “I saw Clint fall.”

 

_Steve held onto the side of a speeding train as it took him away from his everything._

 

“Well,” Tony stretched out his armored hand, like he was letting a frightened kitten sniff his fingers, before continuing, “we all saw _you_ get electrocuted until you were literally on fire, then get your skull bashed with a metal beam, and yet, here you are.”

The metal arm jerked up, and Bucky tried to touch his index finger to the center of Tony’s metal palm, but it was vibrating as orange sparks dropped out the bottom. “Clint’s okay?”

“I’d pinky promise, but you know I’m too cool for that.”

“You have to tell Steve I don’t like his soup.”

A strangled sob escaped Steve’s throat, as he stumbled backwards through the rubble and smoke, because Bucky wasn’t even registering he was in the room.

“No soup. Got it.” Tony stretched his arms out, and Bucky didn’t flinch. “Now, let’s get you outta here before that arm literally falls off. Jesus, you smell like burnt popcorn and a Porta-Potty on a ninety-degree day at the Renaissance Festival put together.”

There are moments in time, however jagged your history, that define who you are and who you will become. As Steve watched Tony, wrapped in thick protective metal, gently lifting Bucky into his arms, he realized that he couldn’t always be the one to rescue the brown haired boy with the dimpled chin. Sometimes it’s impossible to prevent a blue coat from disappearing beneath you, sometimes you have to let something go in order to learn something new. Steve also realized, that and that he wasn’t the only one who’d pointed the nose of a plane towards an expanse of white coming for him at high speed...

The feeling of ice solidifying flesh was something he and Bucky shared.

Steve fell in behind Tony, and watched Bucky’s damp hair and bare feet swinging in time with each step. He let his footfalls match the rhythm, as they all moved forward towards true north.

*****

  


The bed was soft and warm. For once it was soft and warm. Bucky kept his eyes squeezed shut, because he must be in some kind of underwater dream; where blood and piss and shit tasted like clean air, and the rhythm of the shocks sounded like the rhythmic beats of a heart on a monitor. Bucky sucked in a painful breath, unsticking dry lips from one another and thought ‘I wish this could be home.’

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was still under him. Bucky tried to open his eyes to see where the fuck he was this time, but he couldn’t. Drugs. Why did they always give him drugs? ...oh look ma, I’m still alive. Surprise, surprise. What was that noise? What was...oh god, _Steve_...

“...ouldn’t he be waking up by now? With the serum, it shouldn’t be taking this long!”

“Let me remind you, Captain Rogers, his body _is_ healing. This morning’s tests all show marked improvement in his white blood count and organ function…”

“But his shoulder still looks…”

“Steve, it’s gonna take a little time, man. C’mon you need a break.”

“What about his shoulder, Dr. Cho?”

“With everything else his body is fighting: the damage to the central nervous system, the sepsis, the infected wounds, the blood loss, the recurring seizures, the compromised functionality of his heart, his body isn’t prioritizing the shoulder right now. But I’m confident, Captain Rog…”

“I’m not a Captain anymore.”

“Steve. Steve man. Wait up…”

Hey, Bucky thought. Hey...but he could only hear the beeping of that damn monitor...he couldn’t hear Steve anymore. Drugs. They always gave him drugs.

*

  


The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and his fucking shoulder hurt! Bucky tried to open his eyes, managing to unstick them enough to see two pairs of feet propped up on opposite sides of his ankles at the end of the bed. What the hell?

“...only have the best here, Steve. He’s tough. I’ve tried to kill him a bunch of times and he always pulls through.”

“I know, Tony. I know. It just sucks. I don’t have anything left to say, except it _fucking sucks_.”

“So, you’ve just really embraced the whole swearing thing, huh? Just full throttle f-bombs thrown here, there, and everywhere. Give me some fucking coffee! Get fucking Bucky some more mother fucking morphine! Fuck the world! Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck…”

“Tony…”

“Listen. Your boyfriend’s fucked up. Royally fucked up. Anyone else would have been fucking dead when I accidentally electrocuted the fuck out of them, then purposefully electrocuted the fuck out of them some more, then accidentally electrocuted the fuck out of him again. But these doctors are the best, and _I’m_ the best, and T’Challa’s people are the best, and your soulmate, or whatever you wanna call him, is one tough mother fucker. If he punched Chuck Norris in the face it would _actually_ leave a bruise. Steve, look at me. Everything’s gonna be okay. I fucking promise.”

Steve was _not_ gonna get that joke.

God, Bucky wished he could manage a word or two, because Stark’s ugly ass loafers touching his ankles was so uncool (even if he was saying weirdly nice things). If he could talk Bucky would say, ‘Fuck you and your loafers’, but he couldn’t, so he just drifted off to opiate land again.

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and someone had propped Bucky up on his right side. When he cracked his eyes, he was staring at a bunch of colorful flower bouquets and a bunch of random weird shit on a table. Who the hell was sending The Winter Soldier get-well flowers? Everyone apparently. He tried to move, which was a horrible mistake because there were a million tubes and IVs sticking out of him, and a mother fucking catheter shoved up his dick! Every single tube pulled on every single part of him, in every goddamn direction, all at the same fucking time, and it hurt like hell!

Bucky tried to say ‘shit’, but it came out as “shhhhgggggrrrr”, which resulted in something even worse than the dick yank. Tony Fucking Stark scrambled around the bed, and stuck his overly manscaped goatee directly in Bucky’s line of sight.

“Holy shit.” Stark looked shocked. “Holy shit.”

“Fuuuuuggggs ooooovvvv.”

“Holy shit! Did you just say fuck off!?” He stood up so Bucky was staring directly at his crotch. “Scott! This asshole actually woke up! Go get someone!”

“No way! That’s so awesome!”

“Way! He just told me to fuck off! I think he’s gonna be okay!”

“That’s awesome too!”

For a minute nothing happened, and Bucky was stuck staring at Tony’s crotch. He was trapped in crotch prison. He took note that Tony dressed to the left, which was something he didn’t want or need to know.

“Scott. Are you gonna get a doctor, or just stand there telling me how awesome everything is until he passes out aga…”

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and Bucky could feel someone playing with his hair. He opened his eyes and Natasha was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, running her fingers through the strands. It felt nice.

“Hey, there you are.” She smiled and didn’t stop her fingers.

Bucky wanted to move but he’d learned that lesson the hard way last time. He liked his dick attached to his body, thank you very much.

“Here.” Natasha reached out towards the rolling table and fished an ice cube out of a tall glass of water. “Go slow, try to suck on this.”

Bucky tried to ask her a million questions with his eyes as the ice melted in his mouth. God, it felt so good.

“I know. I’ll tell you. Just relax.” Her hands gently started pulling Bucky’s hair up towards the top of his head as she spoke, and it was the first time he didn’t feel anxiety bubbling up through the haze of drugs. “Steve’s sleeping in the room next door. He’s refused to leave your side for the past four days, until Sam finally put his foot down a few hours ago. Sam’s getting _really good_ at putting his foot down. The room next door was a compromise. He was upset that he wasn’t here when you woke up the first time, and he’ll be even more upset that he wasn’t here this time, but this is the first time he’s slept more than a few hours since we lost you, so I’m gonna let him sleep. You’ve been back at Avengers’ tower in New York for four days.”

Grabbing another ice cube, she slid it over his cracked lips, before continuing, “Clint’s down the hall. He insisted that we transfer him from the compound as soon as you got out of surgery. He was a real bastard about it.” She chuckled and straightened the collar of Bucky’s hospital gown. “The tranquilizer that hit him was designed for you, so it caused some problems at the injection site, along with some systemic damage, but it will all heal in time. The break in his humerus was bad enough to require surgery and a few nuts and bolts. He keeps saying you guys match now...the joke’s getting really old already. Anyway, the blood flow was compromised during transport so there was tissue damage, but with Dr. Cho here, it’s healing well. They think I can take him home tomorrow, if I can get him to leave. Seems like you’re a pretty popular guy around here.”

Both of her tiny hands pulled Bucky’s hair on top of his head, carefully sliding her fingers under his right side to pull out the strands that were stuck to his face. She used her mouth to pull a red rubber band off her wrist and secured it all on top, and Bucky wanted to kiss her. It felt so much better to feel air on the back of his neck.

She pulled up her legs and carefully tucked her toes under his right arm. She’d done that on a mission once, when The Soldier had been out of cryo too long. Bucky suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as Natalia said, “Let’s try one more ice cube before I get the doctor.”

“My fault.”

“Bucky.” He could feel her adjusting the blanket over his hips, and see her nodding her head so her loose red hair swung back and forth. The last time she’d stuck her toes under The Soldier’s arm her hair had been in a ponytail, a simple ponytail on a teenaged girl recently dispatched from The Red Room...her toes had been cold after she’d snapped the target’s neck with her thighs, so she’d smiled at The Soldier as they’d waited for extraction...she’d had a dimple. The Soldier had noticed her dimple...

He tried to blink. The same dimple was moving as she talked. Bucky tried to listen but he could feel something coming...

“...all guilty. Every one of us, in different ways. The only difference is you’re stuck there. So is Steve. It’s time for both of you to crawl out of the mud.”

Bucky suddenly felt his limbs going numb and he smelled burning rubber. “Buuuu...nnnnn….”

“Bucky!” Natasha’s tiny hands rolled him further onto his side, holding him so he wouldn’t fall on the floor. “Sam!” she screamed. “He’s having a seizure!”

“Shit! Nurse! Dr. Cho! He’s hav…”

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and Bucky heard the sound of...rhyming? ‘Sitting in a house on a cold cold wet day?’ He tried to open his eyes but his brain felt dizzy and heavy, but he had to know what the fuck ‘I sat there with Sally, we sat there, we two’ meant. Bucky tried again and blinked, because there was no way in hell what he was seeing was real.

“...and I said how I wish I had something to do! Too wet to go out and too cold to play ball.”

What the fuck? Tony Stark was sitting in a chair with his feet propped up against Bucky’s ankles. Again…

“So we sat in the house. We did nothing at all.”

...reading from...a kid’s book with a weird cat on the cover?...

“Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit! And we did not like it.”

...and the asshole was wearing a mother fucking red and white striped top hat? Tall hat? He looked like a barber pole with a dumb goatee...

“Not one little bit.” Stark licked his thumb and flipped the page, before glancing over at Bucky. “Oh, hey there, kitty cat. Sorry I stole your hat, but it helped me get in the mood for good ol’ Dr. Seuss storytime!” He hit the call button on the side of the bed with a big grin on his face, and Bucky thought he might puke from the weird. “Look at me pushing a button to call for help. You’re looking at the new and improved Tony Stark! No electrocution for you today, pussy cat, it’s time to make a mess!”

Stark bit his bottom lip and patted Bucky’s leg, before flipping a few pages and starting again. Were they pumping LSD into this IV? What the actual fuck!?

“That is what the cat said...then he fell on his head! He came down with a bump from up there on the ball. And Sally and I, we saw all the things fall!” Tony snapped the book shut with a flourish, then leapt up as a bunch of people in white coats rushed in the room. There were so many doctors and nurses surrounding him, that all Bucky could see was the red and white candy cane hat towering above all of them. “You’re the cat by the way!” Tony hollered, as he got pushed out the door. “The Cat in the Hat! Steve’s Sally ‘cause of the blond pigtails! We can finish storytime later…”

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and Bucky felt a comforting weight behind him. Not pressed up against him, but close enough that Bucky could feel the dip in the mattress and the heat reaching across the gap. A hand was resting lightly on Bucky’s hip and he could feel warm breath against the back of his neck. Bucky let himself enjoy the moment for what he wished it really was: home. He tried to let himself be home.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky struggled to move his head backwards on the pillow to get his attention, but his coordination was still screwed up so he bashed Steve right in the nose.

“Ow, jesus christ. What the…” Bucky felt Steve’s brain catch up.

“Steve, I didn’t mean to…”

“Baby, oh my god!” Steve shoved himself up, and he almost fell backwards off the too-small bed. “Ah, shit.”

Damn his arm hurt like a bitch, but Steve had run around the bed and was kneeling in front of him, furiously hitting the button with his finger.

“What’s up?” Bucky tried to look casual; as casual as a guy who’d let himself get tortured and almost killed could possibly look.

“Are you serious?” Steve’s eyebrow-raise game had never been so on point.

The army of white coats converged again, but Steve didn’t move. Bucky looked right into his eyes and said the only thing that came to mind. “Can you come back and lie in bed with me, when they’re done poking and prodding?”

“Of course I can,” Steve whispered, as he started crying. “The only reason I haven’t been in your bed this whole time is because a very mean lady…” Steve glanced up at Dr. Cho. “...a _very_ mean lady told me, that if I tried to get in bed with you one more time she’d ban me from your room.”

Dr. Cho pointed to the door and rolled her eyes, and she didn’t sound the slightest bit mean when she said, “Steven. Out!”

“See,” Steve stage whispered, “super mean.”

*

 

The bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and Bucky was marvelling at how Steve’s slightly bruised nose was smushed against his flesh shoulder. The bridge was all crooked (not from Bucky breaking it, but from the mushing), making the air whistle in and out of his pinched nostrils. Drool was also running out the side of his mouth and getting all over Bucky’s skin. How the hell was he even sleeping like that?

But Bucky kept looking, because he loved him...he _loved_ Steve’s squished face, and his gross drool, and how his fingers lightly touched Bucky’s belly as he slept...he loved him so damn much, even though he was a fucking idiot. To be fair, Bucky sniffed and kissed the top of Steve’s stupid head, they both were. Two idiots, crammed together on a too-small hospital bed after the latest episode of the ‘Self-Sacrificial Steve and Bucky Show’.

Sam had kindly offered to pull in another bed and tie them together, to appease Dr. Cho. The poor woman had already begged them to “stop risking further injury by squeezing your giant muscles up against each other in one tiny bed!” but Bucky had flat out refused to entertain the two bed scenario. He _liked_ Steve squished up against him...even when it hurt. He was realizing that now.

As Bucky inhaled, he timed it with Steve’s exhale, carefully moving his flesh fingers to play with the ends of Steve’s pajama pants. It still hurt to move because of the fucking arm (among a thousand other things), which Dr. Cho said was completely normal for someone with full thickness burns surrounding the entire seam of their cybernetic arm, who’d had extensive surgery to reinforce the damaged connections between metal and bone...plus recurrent seizures...plus screwed up nerves...plus skin grafts...plus the Cradle... Bucky had stopped listening at that point.

At least the weird new version of Stark had rolled in with his toolbox yesterday, and tweaked the wires enough to make the arm stop jerking like a dying fish, so they could power it back up. When it was off, the weight of it made Bucky feel like he was attached to an anchor. So, even though Stark had yelled the whole time about having to replace eighty percent of the damn thing eventually, it was totally worth it to feel lighter. He’d seemed pissed (but not _Tony Stark_ pissed) which Bucky was still too _way_ to fucking drugged up to fully grasp, so he hadn’t really tried. After Stark had finished doing whatever he’d been doing, he’d patted Bucky on the head then had strolled out the door, as an army of nurses had run in to immobilized the arm with a shit load of bandages. He looked like a mummy. The point was, between the tubes, and the half-healed injuries, and his King Tut arm, moving was a bitch.

But none of that mattered right now...not in the slightest...because the only important thing was letting his lips ghost over Steve’s stupid forehead.

Bucky felt a tear slipping down his cheek as he kissed him, then kissed him again, then once more for good measure. He didn’t mean to wake him, but Bucky’s breath was shaky, and he _did_ kiss him like twenty times. Steve’s eyes slowly opened, with lots of squinting and blinking, as he unstuck his nose. It was all cute, and red, and it had a crease in the middle. With the slightly black eyes from the accidental nose bashing, it made him look like a sleepy five-year-old. Stupid Steve just stared at Bucky, looking at him in a way that he hadn’t...in a way that he never had, which made _Bucky_ start crying like a five-year-old. Jesus. Maybe they both needed nap time and a fuzzy teddy bear?

Steve pulled in his own shaky breath, and said, “What’s up?”

God, he was such a smartass.

“Good one, very original,” Bucky sniffed, and tried to shake his head (which was a fucking mistake). Letting yourself get hit in the skull with a metal pole made head shaking difficult. A flash of pain hit as he felt the ghost of the impact...he could feel the impact every time he turned his head, but he blinked and looked at Stupid Steve...Steve was _here_. Steve’s stupid face, attached to his stupid big body that had stupidly rescued him, was here. It took Bucky six more blinks to be able to answer the un-original, original question. “Nothin’ much happening here, I’m just crying like a big baby over your big stupid face.” He let his fingers press against the tiny bit of soft flesh under Steve’s bellybutton, and rubbed them in a tiny circle, as he whispered, “I really fucked up, huh?”

“I think that’s a pretty fair assessment.” Steve cocked his head, before tracing his thumb along the edge of Bucky’s jaw. It made Bucky want to purr. The nurse had shaved off his torture beard this morning, so Steve’s fingers felt like heaven on his newly smooth skin. “Although I’d rephrase that. I think it’s much more accurate to say, _we_ really fucked up.”

Yeah, Bucky’d heard...in great gory detail...while he was tethered to the bed by his dick tube.

“Stark told me that you killed everyone in your path to get to me, and not ‘T’Challa killed’, or ‘Natasha killed’, but ‘psycho-out-of-control killed’. His exact quote was ‘Steve must really love your cock, because he went straight up ‘Die Hard’ on those pricks to make sure he could take another ride.”

“You gonna tell me what that means?”

“It means, I have a fantastic cock _and_ you need to watch more Bruce Willis movies.”

Steve squinted and used his thumb to wipe at Bucky’s trail of stupid tears. “So, lemme get this straight. You’re crying while making dick jokes, and telling me that I need to watch a movie?”

“ _Movies_. Plural.”

When Steve groaned, Bucky finally stopped himself...old habits die hard...Oh fuck! He snorted so loud that Steve jumped.

“Jesus Bucky, what!?”

“Nothing. Oh my god, I was just so funny inside my head, but it’s not gonna translate in the real world. I seriously can’t believe that my brain’s still functioning enough to come up with that caliber of joke on its own! I was sure they’d fried all the comedy right out of me.”

Steve stared extra hard, and gave Bucky his up-close-and-personal stare of disappointment. Yeah, he was pretty fucking disappointed in himself too. His index finger found Steve’s bellybutton and he let it slip just inside. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever done that before, but it was time to do a _lot_ of things he’d never done before...

“So, we’re not gonna talk about the fact that The Avengers went on an unsanctioned mission to fucking Ukraine and mowed down everyone in your path to pull my half-dead ass out of another torture chamber, when you knew damn well I could have gotten out of there myself the second I woke up? Stark said you brought back _two_ prisoners? Two out of fifty-six.”

Bucky’d been shocked when Stark had told him, because of all the stupid things Steve Rogers had ever done to save Bucky Barnes, endorsing a ninety-six-percent kill rate had never been one of them. Bucky let his finger push deep into Steve’s stomach, wondering if he could poke the bloodthirsty thing that was swimming around inside of him.

But Steve just took his super-nice-skin-stroking hand off his jaw, and stuck his finger in Bucky’s bellybutton instead. He gave it a good push, as he responded with the faintest snap, “I’ll talk about whatever you want, Buck, if you start talking about the fact that you almost _died_...on purpose.”

“Yeah, about that…” Bucky kept pushing harder and harder, as he buried his nose in the messy strands of Steve’s hair. He smelled like Eucalyptus. “You’ve been using my shampoo.”

Steve smelled the hair that had slipped out of Natasha’s red rubber band, and kept right on pushing too. He whispered, “Yours smells like antiseptic.”

There they were, in the same place they’d been their whole lives, both pushing to the point of pain, and neither one willing to say Uncle. Two stupid, stubborn, assholes with their fingers jammed painfully into each other’s bellybuttons, because they were too chicken-shit to tell each other the truth!

Bucky abruptly yanked out his finger, scraping the red burn on his wrist on the edge of the blanket, and it fucking hurt. “We can't keep doing this, Steve.”

“I know.” Steve’s finger retracted, and both of his arms folded into his chest, before he swallowed hard. Bucky knew what was coming, before Steve even opened his mouth. “Goddammit, Buck,” he whimpered, as his entire face crumbled.

And that right there, was why Bucky Barnes was a fucking asshole: he’d done it to Steve all over again, like a broken record, bouncing back to the saddest part of the song.

But the bed was soft and warm. The bed was soft and warm and Bucky nuzzled into Steve as best as he could with all the breaks, bruises, cuts, subdural hematomas, missing toenails, brain damage, burns, bandages, tubes, and a mummified metal arm, because that’s all that either of them could handle. They were _both_ broken, they were _both_ fucked in the head, they were _both_ liars...but not heroes. Bucky was pretty sure their hero cards had been revoked, because putting all your friends at risk to rescue a man who deserved to be left behind wasn’t heroic. It was selfish. But Bucky held on for dear life in the too-small hospital bed, because even when they’d had nothing, they’d had each other.

Until they hadn’t.

He couldn’t think about that right now... _everything_ hurt too much.

Bucky closed his eyes and smushed his nose against Steve’s, bending them both so the air whistled in and out. He tried to memorize the sound, because Bucky knew...it was time to tell the truth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	5. Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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“So, that looks like it hurts,” Clint chuckled, raising one eyebrow. He was parked in a wheelchair and messing around with all the cards, flowers, toys, and other weird stuff that kept arriving in Bucky’s room. He’d even got a card from Vision; a real snail-mail, android-tongue-licked, get well card, addressed to Sergeant Barnes. It was fucking hilarious.

Bucky was slowly wandering around his hospital room, which felt amazing, even though it hurt like hell. They’d decided to pull out most of the tubes this morning, most importantly that god-awful dick tube, and had _finally_ let him get out of the bed for the first time in six days. Dr. Cho had given him endless warnings about paying attention to the warning signs of the seizures, so he didn’t end up falling on his ass and fucking himself up all over again. She’d put it in a much more doctorly way, but that was the gist. He’d only had one yesterday, so at least he was heading in the right direction.

“It does hurt,” Bucky laughed, then pointed at the huge cast on Clint's arm. “That looks like it hurts too.”

“Like a son-of-a-bitch. _Everything_ still hurts. But that’s what happens when you forget that hanging out with a bunch of superheroes does not mean that I have _actual_ superpowers.” He gave Bucky a sheepish grin and shrugged with one shoulder. “What can I say? Deciding to fall off a building wasn’t my best idea.”

“I don’t think you _decided_ to fall off the building. You’re giving yourself too much credit.” Bucky patted the top of Clint’s head, like a silly little kid who thought he could tie a cape around his neck, jump off the barn, and he’d fly around like Thor. Not gonna happen. Ruffling his hair, Bucky realized how good it felt to touch this idiot in the flesh. “You _are_ a superhero, Clint. Just not the variety that should be falling off rooftops. And, for the record, just because Steve dramatically leaps from dangerous heights on the regular, doesn't mean it’s a good idea.”

Clint tried to roll himself forward in his wheelchair, but since he had only one arm, he just spun in a circle. It would be a dick move to laugh, so Bucky didn’t (even though he really wanted to). After he gave up on wheelchair dancing, Clint said, “I’m convinced that Steve only does it because he thinks it looks cool.”

“You’re one-hundred percent correct on that one, buddy. Hey, you gonna show me what this weird pig thing you got me does?” Bucky poked at the box that had the most disturbing, um...he didn’t know what the fuck it was.

“It’s a dog! And it grows a plant afro. Here, hand it to me, so I can introduce you to the magic of the Chia Pet!” Clint stretched out his good arm, and Bucky leaned around the giant bouquet of orange and yellow gerber daisies from Pepper to grab the creepy alien plant box.

Bucky’d only met Pepper a couple of times, but he’d instantly known that he liked her a whole hell of a lot more than Stark. Scratch that. He’d instantly known that he liked her in general, and had wondered what the hell she’d ever seen in Stark. It was something that had kept Bucky up at night (not really), but the man was shorter than her, didn’t listen to anybody, drank everything in sight, blasted way too much AC/DC, talked to his robot friends more than real people, had a goatee that looked like a manicured hedge, and locked himself in his workshop to build armor, and weapons, and upgrades for days on end in order to keep everyone safe… huh...he thought about Tony Stark, reading a creepy book in a creepy hat while Bucky was semi-unconscious, and well...maybe he was starting to understand Pepper’s strange attraction a teeny tiny bit. He was sorry that she’d left him.

“Dude, I can see your ass sticking out of that robe. Can you please tie that!?” Clint was covering his eyes with his hand and doing a shit job of it.

He knew he had a fantastic ass, so he couldn’t really fault the guy, but Clint couldn’t be serious with that request... Bucky raised his eyebrows, because they’d bandaged the hell out of his shoulder, and his back, and his thigh, and the metal arm was still strapped to his chest so the newly assembled Erector Set attaching it wouldn’t move until his bones had set. “How the hell am I gonna do that? With my teeth? I don’t exactly have two hands that are up to the job right now. I’ve got a better idea; how about _you_ tie it for me, genius?”

Clint looked at the humongous purple cast covering his broken arm from shoulder to wrist, and laughed. Was he laughing at the absurdity that neither one of them was capable of tying a hospital gown, or the dick Bucky had drawn right in the middle of forearm when he’d signed it? That was the million dollar question.

“Fine, fine, I see your point.” He squinted at Bucky’s masterpiece. “This dick has a really weird curve to it, by the way. If you tried to line this bad boy up, you’d poke your partner in their knee instead of wherever you were trying to stick it.”

“How could you accidentally fuck a knee?”

“It’s like a horseshoe!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, and set the extraterrestrial plant box in Clint’s lap. He was wearing sweatpants. Bucky didn’t even get underwear yet! Although, swinging free did feel pretty fucking liberating. He did a little hip swing, not quite a helicopter, but maybe a pendulum...and yeah...he could get used to this.

“So, Romeo...” Clint rudely interrupted his dick experiment, just when he was getting a good swing. “...are we gonna talk about the fact that I'm apparently your Juliet?”

He might have been staring at the creepy box in his lap, but Bucky felt like Clint was somehow looking right through him. Dick swinging was so much easier than talking about this...plus, Clint looked _nothing_ like Claire Danes. He could definitely pull off the little angel wings if he tried hard enough, but there was no way that Bucky could ever pull off cute baby Leonardo DiCaprio. Bucky’s hair was way way too cool, and there was no way he was going method and getting a nineties bowl cut. Hydra didn’t give him the Leo look in the _actual_ nineties, so there was no way he was...

“Dude, I know you heard me.”

Clint was still not-looking at him, which meant he wasn’t gonna let this Montague and Capulet shit go. Bucky sighed, and ever so slowly sat down in the chair in front of the window. There was a fleeting thought that it was probably rude to plop his naked ass down on the ultrasuede, but he ignored it.  

“Bucky, c’mon…”

“I thought I killed you.”

There, he said it. He glanced at Clint, expecting some dramatic reaction, but all he said was, “Yeah, I heard,” before cracking open the alien egg pod.

A weird pig thing emerged (no visible tentacles yet) and Clint started tapping his fingers on the hollow clay shell. It made a quiet echo. “First of all, dipshit, if I’d died in that stupid ambush it would have been on _me_. It was a split second decision that clearly wasn’t my brightest moment: my brain decided you needed help, and that the best way to help was to get shot and fall off a building. In retrospect, it makes absolutely no sense.”

“You think?” Bucky snickered, but inside he could see Clint falling. He could feel him hitting the ground...

“Not everything shitty that happens is your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

“Yeah. I'm sure it does. Doesn't mean it’s true. And if I may humbly make a suggestion…” Clint was trying to lean over to turn on the sink, without knocking the alien hippopotamus out of his lap, and seemed to be having some significant issues. “...Let Steve help you when you start to fall. He may be a big sappy puppy, but he’s strong enough to catch your delinquent ass once in awhile. Steve _needs_ you to trust him enough to make the catch.”

“He shouldn't have to.”

“Bucky, _please_ stop being so dense. That's what partners are supposed to do! Did you not see The Black Widow wheeling my ass into this room fifteen minutes ago? She gave me one hell of a sponge bath this morning; a master spy who spends most days saving the world from apocalyptic threats, slathered Ivory soap on a washcloth and scrubbed my stinky pits.” He’d somehow managed to fill a plastic cup with water, and was trying to rip open some sort of unearthly seed packet with his teeth.

Bucky scrunched up his nose, because yuck and yuck. “I was all for that story, until you made me think about your gross hairy armpits.”

“Exactly! That’s my point, dumbass! Would you bust out the soap, and wash Steve’s sweaty armpits, if he couldn't do it himself?”

“Yeah.”

“How about his swampy ass?”

Bucky laughed, because Steve would be so mortified. “Gross, but yeah.”

“See! When shit gets bad in your head...and, man, I know it does...please let Steve give your brain a sponge bath.”

There was some sort of mixing going on in the cup, and Bucky expected alien tentacles to erupt out of the gelatinous paste at any second to overtake the world. Then they’d have to go on another mission, which would suck. But he put his concern about killer alfalfa sprouts aside. “Really Clint? That's your advice?”

“It's solid advice, bro.”

“Can Steve wash my dick while he's at it?”

“Man, why do you always have to go there? Did I talk about how gentle Nat was when she rubbed the washcloth all over my balls and…”

“Fucking stop,” Bucky cracked up. “It hurts when I laugh.”

“Fine.” Clint dipped his fingers into the extraterrestrial ectoplasm and started smearing it all over the Martian unicorn. “But no more Romeo, okay? I mean it. No matter who’s playing the role of Juliet.”

Shakespeare would probably be mad that Bucky and Steve had plagiarized his play...several times, in different decades...

A spasm suddenly ran up the muscles bracketing his spine as he could feel the cold water lapping at his shredded skin, and filling his mouth as he screamed. If it had been Steve...he tried to breathe and waited for his back to uncramp...if it had been Steve, the outcome would have been worse. Bucky picked at the hem of his super short hospital gown, and mumbled, “I wouldn’t have let them kill me.”

“And yet, you almost died.”

Bucky’s ass was stuck to the chair, his body was fucking wrecked, he couldn’t remember half the things they’d done to him, he didn’t feel any better about himself...and he _did_ almost die.

Shifting to unstick his butt and balls (a downside of commando), he very slowly shuffled over to grab the goopy green alien platypus out of Clint’s slime covered hand. “So,” he started, “you mentioned something about split-second decisions making no sense in retrospect....”

“Yeah, something like that,” Clint scoffed, while making a horrible attempt at wiping his hand all over the edge of the sink.

Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He just sniffed at the Romulan griffin and nearly puked. It reeked, and the shit was falling off into his hand. “Clint, these seeds are all falling off. Is that supposed to happen?”

“What? No.” Clint looked baffled as the seeds started sliding off the hide of the extraterrestrial buffalo. He squinted at the back of the box, and groaned, “I did it wrong. I suck.”

He felt a serious pout coming on. “Clint,” he whined, “How’d you fuck up my present?” What could this otherworldly antelope have become if allowed to grow and sprout?

“By not reading the directions, and not remembering most of the nineties,” he snorted. “LSD, man. I was into The Flaming Lips. My last Chia-Pet was a turtle, and I had a bad trip and tried to flush it down the toilet. Don’t tell Nat.”

Laughing with Clint. It was the thing that allowed Bucky to be whoever the fuck he was now...whatever that meant. No pressure, no memories of who he was supposed to be, just a funny dude who’d given Bucky a real chance. He carefully set his Chia-dog under Pepper’s flowers and tried not to cry.

Clint had given up destroying the sink and was trying to grab the edge of Bucky’s hospital gown instead. “Seriously Bucky, I love you. I’m glad we’re both okay, that you’re my bosom buddy, and that we talked.” He shoved at Bucky’s thigh, and pushed himself backwards in his wheelchair. “Now will you _please_ get back in your bed. I've seen your ass sticking out the back of that gown at least twelve times since I rolled in here. You need to put that shit away!”

“I love you too,” Bucky snickered, then bent over to give Clint the full moon.

*****

 

The bed was boring and stupid. The bed was boring and stupid, and Bucky was so fucking _over_ being stuck in it! Weird Tony Stark had shown up again. But this time the weird book, and the even weirder striped hat, were replaced by a giant bag of M &Ms and a rocking chair that he’d dragged in from somewhere. They’d been having an Old West staredown for roughly ten minutes, while Tony chomped away on his rainbow candy and didn’t offer to share. Any second, Bucky expected tumbleweeds to roll across the floor. When Tony shimmied his shoulders and gave him a weird grin, Bucky lost the duel.

“So, I think I’ve figured out your plan,” Bucky ventured.

“Oh yeah?” Tony rocked back and tossed an M&M into the air. He almost tipped over the chair when he leaned sideways to catch it on his tongue. His teeth made an obnoxious snap.

Bucky was really hungry. Starving, because Dr. Cho had put in some sort of official paperwork so they could only feed him ‘organic foods rich in nutrients to help his body heal’, which meant those M&Ms were taunting him. He felt like a bear at the zoo, watching the snotty kids shoving hot dogs in their chubby little cheeks next to the ‘don’t feed the animals’ sign. In Bucky’s humble opinion, it classified as animal cruelty.

“I’ve gotta admit, it’s a pretty genius plan,” Bucky continued, while trying to stop himself from leaping at Tony, and tearing those M&Ms out of his hands, with his gnashing bear teeth. “Step one: you pretend you’ve forgiven me. Step two: you play the hero card, and orchestrate the big dramatic rescue, to make yourself look good. Step three: you sneak in here and inject air into my IV to exact your revenge undetected. Step four: you comfort Steve for an appropriate amount of time, then convince him to date you.”

“He does have good abs.” Tony kept rocking, and now he was smiling, and making really good jokes...and it felt so...wrong.

Bucky didn’t deserve Tony Stark’s smiles, or his jokes, or any of his delicious chocolate M&Ms, so he squinted and asked, “Why are you really here? We both know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“Oh, that’s an easy one, Buckaroo. I’m here for purely selfish reasons. Do you know how hard it is to work with you _and_ wanting to kill you at the same time?” He shook his head and rocked forward to a full stop. “Sooo many overtime hours making nefarious plans, constantly having to think of new and clever ways to verbally abuse you, countless sleepless nights imagining how different my life would have been if you hadn’t come calling on Mom and Pop...” Tony flipped two red M &Ms up into the air and missed both. “...all this _pressure_ to hate your cybernetic guts was giving me premature wrinkles.” He leaned over towards the mirror behind the door, poking at the crow’s feet around his eyes.

Bucky just stared at him, because really?

Tony released the chair, and moaned. “Oh my god, fine. What is it with you people? Always wanting to talk things out. Blah, blah, blah. Want me to call Dr. Phil?”

The stare continued, because _Really_?

“ _Fine_ ,” he groaned, then stuck out his tongue. “I’ll call Oprah. You’re so fucking posh, Buckmeister.” Tony shoved a handful of M&Ms into his mouth and started talking with his cheeks full. “Steve’s better with you here...unbelievably. Reflex check!” A M&M flew towards Bucky’s chest, which he snatched out of the air without even looking. It was a yellow one. He ate it. Fuck carrots and kale.

“Nice catch! Anyway, before you wandered back from Murder Land with your bedroom eyes, sexy stubble, and necklace of severed ears, Steve was an insufferable pool of sadness and snobbery. Seriously, a total pain in my ass. Then you returned from the grave in all your Buck Rogers’ Zombie glory, and for whatever reason, the guy thinks you shit diamonds. By the way, you ever gonna put a ring on it?”

Bucky stared some more, until the rocking stopped.

The entire energy of the room changed when Tony swallowed and looked at the ceiling, and when he started talking, Bucky couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“If you repeat this, it will damage my carefully crafted asshole image. It’s taken me years to cultivate it, so you better not out me. I’m about to get a gold star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame that says ‘Asshole’, so this is between us. I mean it!” He gave Bucky a look that suggested Tony Asshole did indeed meant it. “Watching you on the video feed…watching _Steve_ falling apart, while watching you on that monitor...well, it kinda made me realize some very poignant things. It was life changing really; kudos to the director for pulling on every single one of my cynical heart strings. That takes talent. He should get an Oscar.

“Anyway, I realized in Act three, that you really do feel like shit for killing my parents. You are so messed up over it that you let ‘me’ stick you like a pig...you know that wasn’t me, right?... regardless, it was straight up nuts. But it made me realize that taking out my folks really wasn’t your fault...I know, I know...I should’ve figured that out a long time ago, but there were all sorts of pesky emotions in the way. But I get it now. You didn’t choose to be the world’s deadliest assassin on the side of evil, but you _did_ _choose_ to let Sergei Stoletovto torture you.”

Tony scrunched up his face like he was gonna cry, which made Bucky even more uncomfortable than he already was. Not only was his ass falling asleep in this stupid bed, but Tony Stark was forgiving him? It didn’t compute.

“Even worse, you’ve been choosing to let _me_ treat you like shit for months...and no, you don’t automatically get to play the role of Christ in The Avengers’ Christmas play...no matter how much your hair looks like the completely inaccurate Renaissance version of white Jesus. But the bottom line, Lambchop, is that Steve can’t live without you. We can try to force him, but he sucks at it.”

Well, that was unexpected. Both the comparisons to Jesus and the complete one-eighty. It felt like a trick. Bucky shifted on the bed to try to get rid of the pins and needles in his ass, and gave Tony his suspicious eyes. “So, let me get this straight. Instead of throwing your well-deserved rage at me, now you read me creepy kid’s books and hit me with candy?”

“Yep,” he replied, popping the ‘p’. “These are the thoughtful actions of a man moving forward. I’m just thinking of my crows’ feet…”

“It’s okay if you hate me,” Bucky interrupted. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Tony dug his arm into the bag, then launched a shower of M&Ms right at Bucky. He didn’t make a move to catch or avoid any of them, sitting completely still as they bounced off of his body before turning the tile floor into Candyland. “We both have to let it go! All of it! _You_ have to stop being a pouty self-sacrificing goth boy, with your sad little black parasol, and your fifty SPF sunscreen. Just let it go, so Steve can cook you tater tots and mini-pizzas, while you both sit on your codependent couch in your matching zebra snuggies. Let it go...but maybe be more honest about it... I recommend a convo that goes a little somethin’ like this: ‘Bucky, light of my life, I’m gonna fight ten zillion unbeatable cyborgs all by myself because I don’t want your luscious Vidal Sassoon locks to get all messed up in the battle.”

He was trying to sound like Steve...and failing.

Tony turned his head, like he was having a real conversation, and adopted what Bucky guessed was an impression of his voice (if he was Clint Eastwood). “Oh, that’s cool Steve, I’m already busy letting everyone blame me for the extinction of the dinosaurs, the melting polar ice caps, and the unfortunate rise of Justin Bieber, just so nothing can ever touch your precious image of godlike perfection. Cool?” Tony swiveled his head. “Cool.”

“Anyone ever mention that you talk too much?”

“Let it go, and maybe, just _maybe_ , we can all watch ‘Brokeback Mountain’ together. You know, because you’re gay, and that’s the only gay movie that straight people have heard of. We can have a newly united Avengers slumber party! Maybe we can iron the little Avengers patch back onto Steve’s overdeveloped shoulder. You want one? I can iron it on your ass.”

“You’re really not stopping.”

“Let it go, and maybe you can nuke Barton some _Macaroni and Cheese_ while he’s on R &R waiting for that arm to heal up. You can hand feed him, while he’s nestled in the middle of the Bed Bath & Beyond pillow nest that his top secret girlfriend...who shall only be known by her top secret code name _Natasha_... fluffed up for him.  

“I think I liked it better when you were a dick to me.”

“Let it go, and maybe you’ll feel shiny and new like me. I only had three Manhattans so far today, instead of my normal six, so I’m thinking that forgiving you...sorta forgiving you...is a win win. Let it go, like _Frozen_!”

Tony pushed out of the rocker and started spinning in a circle with his arms outstretched, because he was the most annoying human Bucky had ever met, then started singing ‘Let it go’ at the top of his lungs.

“The singing is worse,” Bucky tried to yell over him. “Can you go back to the incessant talking?”

The door opened, and a completely bewildered Steve paused midstep instead of entering Disney Hell. He was holding a fuzzy yellow blanket and had a can of Coca-Cola halfway to his lips (Bucky wasn’t allowed to call it _Coke_ ) and he froze. Ha, froze. Anyway, it was quite the scene: the floor covered in M &Ms, the bed covered in M&Ms, Bucky covered in M&Ms, Tony flinging _more_ M &Ms into the air as he sang, “And one thought crystallizes like an icy blast, I’m never going back, the past is in the past.”

Steve opened his mouth, and his lips started forming the ‘T’ in ‘Tony’, but he caught himself and snapped it back shut. Huh, that was new.

Instead, Steve kicked a bunch of candy out of his path and flopped into the armchair in the corner. He looked super cute with his burgundy henley, light grey jeans, and his blankie, but he still looked super confused, as he said, “Ummm, hi?”

“Hi, babe,” Bucky yelled, over the top of the dramatic conclusion to the song. Tony was gonna slip on those M&Ms.

Tony finally stopped spinning and stumbled around the room rambling instead. “That really is our song, Bucky! Those lyrics were written special just for you, and me, _and_ Steve! That’s our theme song! Like Three’s Company for tortured souls!”

Steve completely ignored Tony, chugged the rest of his soda, then asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Great, until the Princess Torture started. I think it’s worse than the waterboarding.”

The Coke can (Coca-Cola can) was crushed down to nothing in Steve’s hand, as he shook his head.

Too soon? Probably too soon.

Tony fell back into the rocker, looking a little green around the edges, and pointed a finger at Bucky’s nose. “Hey Elsa, you didn’t thank me for the Tsum Tsums. Look Steve, it’s a tiny bean shaped Cap and and tiny bean shaped Winter Soldier, and I sewed them together like they’re fucking! The Winter Soldier’s giving it to your plush little ass good!”

Steve leaned over to look at the counter, where the huge variety of weird get-well gifts were lined up, and deadpanned, “Looks like fun, but you should’ve made them velcro together. That way they could switch things up when they got in the mood.”

Bucky snickered, and Tony’s head swiveled back and forth between them.

“No way….really? Wow, I never pictured things in that particular arrangement. Really?” Tony made a frame with his fingers and closed one eye, like he was directing a movie, or a porno. “Well, that’s a whole new world of disturbing...and oddly arousing, if I’m putting it all out there... images in my head. I _never_ imagined you standing on the pitcher’s mound, Steve! Major fail on my end.” He shook his head, like he was sorely disappointed in himself.

If Tony only knew that Steve had won every World Series since he’d started pitching, which was long before the Brooklyn Dodgers won the pennant in 1941. Bucky winked at Steve, because as soon as he got the hell out of this hospital bed, he was gonna kneel down and play catch all fucking day. Bucky bit his lip, and Steve’s cheeks turned pink, which made him feel a little bit naughty. He lifted his hips high enough that Steve could see the outline of his liberated cock through his hospital gown. Steve ducked his chin and chuckled, before turning bright pink. Oh yeah, Bucky knew how to get Steve going, even when he looked like a mummy.

“Anyway…” Tony interrupted (well, interrupted their eye-sex), and got up to poke at the alien badger. “Why are you always judging my creations, Steve? I don’t see you ripping on this weird Chia-Pet that Barton gave your catcher. What even is this!? Is it supposed to be a pig? A cat? A dog? I’m going with dog, since Barton’s mangy mutt keeps shitting on my perfectly manicured lawn. Did you smear the paste on this thing with your metal hand, Princess Pucker? Fuck up the joints some more?” He picked up the alien manatee and investigated the incorrectly applied seeds. “You did this wrong.”

He was joking, but Bucky got the feeling that he really wasn’t. Tony kicked a bunch of M&Ms towards Steve’s chair and did that slightly-pained-smile thing. Jesus, Bucky suddenly felt  really stupid for not seeing it before; a guy who has trouble talking about his feelings...it takes one to know one.

The Chia-llama was returned to its home planet and Tony picked up the horny Tsum-Tsums instead. “Nothing I do is ever good enough for you, Rogers.” He pushed their little plush parts in and out so they were doing doggy-style proud. “I mean, I got your Blossoming Rosebud a present! A present nobody forced me to build. I sewed this little crotch, to this little ass, all by myself, Steve! It took me a whole five minutes!”

Steve got serious real fast. Bucky felt it and Tony definitely felt it, because he backed up against the table when Steve got out of his chair. The barometric pressure changed whenever Steve Rogers prepared to step up to the podium. People ran out of the wings with American Flags proudly flying on six-foot poles to flank him, somebody started singing ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ with way too much vibrato. Even Bucky sat up a little straighter to prepare for the oncoming speech.

“Listen, Tony,” he began, placing his patriotic hand on the shoulder of a very freaked out genius. “I appreciate _everything_ you do. Without you, we wouldn’t have gotten to Bucky in time. Without you, we wouldn’t have gotten him out of that cell and onto the Quinjet. Without you, Clint probably wouldn’t be here either, or New York City, or...let’s be real...planet Earth.” Steve chuckled, before the fireworks started exploding in the air above him. “But that’s not what’s most important. The most important thing, Tony, is how much you care. Even when shit gets hard, you _always_ show up. Even when the world is crumbling, I know where to find you; right in the middle of the chaos, trying to hold everything together. Even when we’ve been on the opposite side of things, I’ve always been thankful for that, and I’m thankful that you’re here now.”

That was a good one.

“Jesus, Steve. What is it with you and speeches?” Tony shoved the fornicating Tsum-Tsums into Steve’s hand, then snatched the box of Russian pastries off the counter. Natasha and Wanda had paid him a visit earlier, and presented him with cookies and Eucalyptus and Sage scented candles. Girl stuff. He liked it.

Steve had obviously struck a nerve, if the excessive blinking and sniffing meant anything. “I’m taking these,” Tony snapped, as he pushed away from Steve. “That was an excellent speech, and it made me want to hug you, but I don’t do hugs, so I’m stealing cookies.

“It’s really hard being _this nice_ to the most powerful power bottom in the universe. Hey, that should be your new Superhero catchphrase! _‘The Winter Soldier: The most powerful power bottom in the universe!’_ That has a nice ring to it, admit it! People are gonna want t-shirts! Anyway, these are mine now, I need a sugar boost.”

“So, you’re saying I’m more powerful than Steve?” Bucky smiled, and it felt good.

“No. Maybe. No. Fine, I’ll amend it to _‘The Winter Soldier: tied with Captain America for the most powerful power bottom in the universe’_. It doesn’t have the same ring to it and it won’t fit on a t-shirt.” Tony shrugged and opened the square box, as he headed for the door.

“Hey, Tony, can you leave half?” Bucky spoke up. He stopped with a Russian Tea Cookie halfway to his mouth, and a cloud of powdered sugar floating down onto his goatee, because yeah...Bucky spoke up.

His brown eyes got a sparkle in them that Bucky had never seen, as he walked backwards to his stupid, boring bed. Opening his mouth extra wide, he took a bite of the cookie, then set the remaining half on Bucky’s stomach. “Of course you can have half, jeez, I’m not a selfish prick.”

Oh fuck. That was priceless. Bucky couldn’t help but smile, and Tony Stark smiled right back before he strolled out the door with the entire box.

Bucky rubbed his forehead and appreciated the moment. Maybe the whole thing _had_ been worth it.

“At least he didn’t take the Falcon Pop that Sam gave you.” Steve shook his head as he shut the door. “Can you imagine the wings he’d add? I’m positive that they’d be fully functional, so he could dive bomb people in team meetings.”

“Oh, hell no, I wouldn’t let him touch my little Sam, even pre-torture.” Bucky shifted because his ass was seriously getting sore, and Steve threw his hands up in the air.

Still too soon.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Torture jokes are off the table indefinitely.”

“Thank you.” Steve rolled his eyes and lowered the guardrail (seizure safety is very important).

“Imagine how pissed Wilson would be if Tony attacked him with a tiny version of himself.” Bucky lifted the half eaten cookie off his stomach, and started moving it towards his lips. He stage-whispered, “Ant-Man flashbacks,” and prepared to eat the most scrumptious cookie known to man.

“You’re not actually going to eat that, are you?”

“Of course I’m gonna eat it! Even covered in Stark cooties, you don’t waste a good Russian Tea Cookie!” He shoved the whole thing in his mouth, then spit crumbs all over himself when he mumbled, “So fuckin’ good.”

“You’re disgusting. And you’re covered in M&Ms.” Steve brushed the powdered sugar off Bucky’s stomach, along with a few half-melted candies, then looked at the tiny space left on the bed for him to climb into. “Maybe we should have accepted that extra bed? This is such a tight squeeze.”

“I don’t care. I like you squished up against me, just don’t drool this time.”

“I don’t drool!” Steve scoffed, gently pushing on Bucky’s hip to get him to move over, which also hurt his butt. But Steve instantly made him feel better when he pulled his burgundy henley over his head. Nice. A big man in a tight white tank top climbing into Bucky’s stupid, boring bed was going to make it _not_ stupid and boring.

“You drool everywhere!” Bucky laughed, grateful for the muscles on display. “You’re such a liar.”

Crap. As soon as Bucky said that word, he knew there was no coming back from it.

Steve jerked the guardrail back up, then looped his arm beneath Bucky’s mummy arm and carefully across his stomach. They were quiet for a minute, presumably thinking about what horrible fucking liars they both were, before Steve finally sighed. “Hey, Buck?”

“Hmmm?” Bucky vibrated his lips in Steve’s hair, making the raspberry sound. He had no idea why it was called a ‘raspberry’, but he liked the way it felt against Steve’s scalp.

“I’m gonna stop _telling_ you how to feel, and actually _listen_ to how you feel.”

Wow. That was unexpected. Today was full of all sorts of surprises. Bucky stopped blowing oddly named loud kisses, and snickered, “Been doing some deep thinking there, babe?”

“Stop deflecting,” Steve scolded.

“Um, not to be an ass. But didn’t you just say you _weren’t_ gonna tell me how to feel?”

Steve pulled his head back and scrunched up his nose. “I think I just told you to stop pretending you _don’t_ feel.”

Bucky stared at him, and Steve stared right back. He considered himself to be a pretty smart guy, despite the brain damage, but he was beyond lost. “I’m totally confused.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know what I just said,” Steve snorted. His hand started massaging the left side of Bucky’s body, below the divot in his side where the first stab wound was finally healing. If Bucky twisted wrong, he could feel the cells rebuilding the deep wound inside of him, and somehow, Steve had already figured out how to rub it to make the pain stop.

Bucky still wasn’t sure if he deserved that.

“I don’t know if you remember,” Steve started, “but when we finally found you, the first real sentence out of your mouth was, ‘Every time you rescue me, you destroy yourself’.”

It was true. The things that Steve had done to rescue him proved that. Bucky didn’t remember much about getting pulled out of there, but he vividly recalled Steve’s face when he’d spoken those words. “Yeah, I remember.”

Steve gently pulled the gown out from under Bucky’s side so his fingertips were touching the skin. When he lovingly started to stroke one finger up and down Bucky’s side, he wasn’t sure he deserved that either.

Steve sighed before continuing. “I’m going to stop telling you that you’re wrong, and I’m not going to put candy bandaids on gaping wounds anymore.”

“Graphic.”

“Buck...please. I’m gonna hit you with some real talk right now.” Steve aimed those big blue peepers at Bucky, and they were very quickly annihilating his defenses. 

“Sam tell you to say that?” Bucky tried one last Hail Mary, because he didn’t deserve any of this. He didn’t deserve the nice speech Steve was about to give, or the delicious half of a Russian Tea Cookie, or the five M&Ms melting underneath him.

The peepers narrowed, threatening to hit him with a direct beam of earnestness, as Steve scoffed, “No.”

“Didn’t he tell you to say ‘hashtag realtalk’?” Bucky tried to do air quotes, but he only had one available arm, so it was gonna have to be an air _quote_. “It goes like this...‘#realtalk’. You did it wrong.”

The fingers stopped moving up and down his side, and the peepers were getting frustrated. “Sam didn’t tell me to say that! Nobody says ‘hashtag real talk’,” Steve snapped.

“Hashtag realtalk.”

Steve moved away from Bucky, as much as he could on the too-small bed, taking his peepers, and fingers, and the warmth of his body with him. It was only half an inch, but suddenly it felt like miles.

“You know what Bucky, this is a big deal.” The guardrail got put back down, and Steve got out of the too-small bed in his too-small tank top, and looked downright pissed. There was definitely a finger pointing at Bucky, when Steve said, “I’m gonna tell you how I really feel, and I’d like you to listen. Afterwards, if you still want to leave...I’ll let you go.”

Bucky jolted upright and the pain that ripped through his shoulder was overwhelming, because Steve was serious and he felt a wave of panic and...“I don’t want to leave...what are you…?”

“Buck. I know you,” he interrupted. “I’ve known you since we were kids. I know that you’ve jerked off in the bathroom every single morning since you were fourteen years old, even _after_ we started fucking, because you’re _just that horny_ . I know Peggy always gave you separate orders to do the dirty work on missions, so my precious image didn’t get stained. I know you sprained your ankle when you slipped on that rock in Germany, it was in The Ore Mountains, and you pretended that you were fine so we didn’t miss the rendezvous. And I know damn well that you’ve been thinking I’d be better off without you! I _know_. I always pretend that I don’t know, and I always tell myself I have no clue, but I fucking know!”

Bucky shut up completely.

Steve was standing perfectly still, and Bucky didn’t know what to do. He thought Steve _didn’t_ know. He’d been pretty sure that Steve just hid in the alley, imagining rainbows and unicorns or something like that, while he reminisced about making out with James Buchanan Barnes. When Bucky had spent hours throwing knives at the wall, he’d been so hurt that Steve had no idea what he was really thinking. But _now_...jesus...the arm was throbbing, and he wanted out of this fucking bandage, because now that Steve had said it out loud everything felt so much more real.

“I know why you let those people rip you to pieces, and why you were letting them kill you! And goddammit, Buck, if being here with me leads you to _that_ , then you shouldn’t be here! As much as it kills me to say that, I’d rather let you go then bury you.”

He paused, as tears started slipping out of the corners of his eyes, waiting for all that to sink in, Bucky supposed. There was no doubt that his humble life in Bucharest, with his musty sleeping bag, one working light that buzzed when you turned it on, hours spent staring at the peeling wallpaper, and backpacks buried under floorboards, was what he deserved.

Steve suddenly yanked the ultrasuede chair away from the wall and spun it around so M&Ms skidded everywhere. There were no American Flags or fireworks when he braced his hands on the back, and said, “Will you listen?”

Bucky nodded, because this was what he wanted all along.  

“Good.” His expression softened, even though his hands were still gripping the chair hard enough to make his veins pop out. “After you fell, Peggy tried to set me straight in that bombed out bar in London...in the remnants of the place where you told me that you were following the skinny kid from Brooklyn. She said I needed to give you the dignity of your choice. I swear to god, Bucky, I never fully grasped what she meant until you said those words to me in that fucking cell: ‘Every time you rescue me, you destroy yourself.” Steve chewed on the words for a minute, like they were thick and full of gristle, then let his shoulders drop a little bit more.

“I’ve been thinking non-stop about what you meant; rephrasing it a thousand different ways to try and figure it out. But it wasn’t until I said, ‘Every time I rescue James Buchanan Barnes, I destroy Steven Grant Rogers’, that I realized something that made me want to kick myself over and over. Because jesus, it’s so hard for me to hear that you believe that...so damn hard. Peggy said you must have thought _I_ was worth it; that following me back into that hell, and risking your life, was worth it because of how you felt about _me_ . She said, ‘he damn well must have thought _you_ were worth it’; not the war, not the cube, not the cause... _me_!”

Steve was crying now, and Bucky hated that that fucking chair was in between them, because as much as Bucky deserved to be on the other side of the gap, he hated it.

“So Bucky, I need you to think about that sentence again. Can you do that for me? Please?”

Bucky nodded, because even though he couldn’t think straight right now, he’d do anything for Steve. Just like he always had.

His hands released the chair and he moved to sit on the very edge, his palms touching the silver guardrail. “You followed _Stevie Rogers_ back to war when you were broken, and _hurting_ , and you hid it because of how you felt about _me_! And I _knew_...I fucking knew...But I was too goddamned selfish to say anything! I _wanted_ you by my side, like you’d always been, and it was so wrong of me to even ask.

“But that wasn’t the first time _James Buchanan Barnes_ rescued _Steven Grant Rogers,_ and started destroying _himself_. It was just the time that got you killed.” He hit his hands against the railing and Bucky could feel the pain in the vibrations. He wanted to stop him, to tell Steve is was okay, that he was fine, but he didn’t.

“I think the first time was when you took the blame for throwing a brick at Donny Salerno. He’d been shoving those kittens in a sack. You remember that? You told me to wait, that we needed to get help to deal with someone like Salerno, but I ran right over and nailed him in the back of the head. And yeah, the kittens ended up safe, but when Salerno’s buddies showed up, you were the one that took the beating while I was powerless and pinned in the dirt under Donny’s knee. So dammit, Bucky! I want you to understand that every time I’m rescuing you, it’s from that first choice you made for _me_.”

Steve’s strong hands pushed the guardrail back down, and when his fingertips ghosted over his arm, Bucky started crying. He remembered those kittens...

“Every time I rescue you, I’m not destroying myself. Baby, I’m just trying to dig around in the dirt to find all of our broken pieces and put them back together, and I’m doing a shitty job. I keep looking, and grabbing, and shoving parts into notches that don’t fit anymore. You aren’t destroying me, Bucky. Do you understand?” His palms wrapped around Bucky’s forearm, so his knuckles touched his hip through the gown. “I was destroyed a long time ago; shattered into a million pieces the second I couldn’t reach your hand. I destroyed _myself,_ by _failing_ you.”

Bucky started shaking his head, even though his neck hurt, because that was impossible. It was his fault...right? He sobbed because the pain from the stab wound started again and he just wanted Steve to rub it...he just wanted...

Steve stood up and cupped his hands around Bucky’s face. “Every second with you is a gift, but I realize now that I’ve been doing everything wrong. I’m so sorry, baby. It’s been so unfair of me to treat every second with you, no matter what it’s been filled with, as the glue that puts back another piece of me _._ It’s selfish, because I know you’re suffering.”

Strong hands gently pushed the hair back over his ears, and for a second Bucky almost felt like he deserved it.

“There’s only one thing in the world that’s ever made me selfish, Buck, and that’s you. _That’s_ my crime. But I see it now. It’s not about putting our pieces back together, it’s about moving forward again...together.”

The weight on the edge of the bed felt so good when it dipped under Bucky’s hip. Maybe it was time to let it go. Oh Jesus, now he was hearing that fucking song. Great. A Disney Princess soundtrack when Steve leaned forward to kiss Bucky on the forehead and rub away his tears with his thumbs. But it was a beautiful moment, so Bucky let himself have it...

Steve’s voice sounded so comforting when he said, “I’ve never been able to do what Peggy said, but maybe its time with _both_ try. I’d like you to let me choose you, Bucky, no matter how much horrific shit pours down on us, just let me _choose_ you. Let me put _us_ first for once. And I’ll listen, baby. I promise, I’ll really listen from now on, and I’ll respect your choices; whatever they may be.”

The look of fear that crossed Steve’s face when he said those last words made the hair stand up on Bucky’s arms, because he meant it. Bucky could go, and Steve would let him.

Somehow, those were the exact words that Bucky needed to hear to make him want to stay. Steve was right, they both needed to move forward, instead of looking back towards a past that held nothing for them; happy, sad, ugly, beautiful, shameful...a thousand emotions that had nothing to do with who they needed to become now. Bucky half expected Tony to come spinning into the room to serenade them with their Three’s Company Tortured Souls Princess Theme Song, because Steve and Bucky were the very definition of tortured. Stark’s Disney logic was making more and more sense. Maybe it was okay for Bucky to be a little selfish for once?

He blurted out, “I don’t wanna work for Ross.”

Steve looked startled, and Bucky was right there with him. He’d been wanting to say that since they’d left Wakanda, but to actually say it...felt pretty freaky.

But once the shock wore off, relief flooded Steve’s features, and he half laughed, half cried, “Me either.”

“But I’d like to stay at the compound. If they need us, I want to be here.” Bucky didn’t know how that would work exactly, but he already had a long list of shit that he _wouldn’t_ be doing anymore: no bullshit missions, no bullshit psych evaluations, no bullshit meetings with clueless Government officials, no more gross peppers in his salad (he was gonna set Chef Aaron straight), and no traumatizing arguments with Tony Stark. They’d shared a Russian Tea cookie, which made them best buds.

The hint of a smile was creeping onto Steve’s face, when he whispered, “Okay.”

Bucky wanted to kiss it...but there were more selfish requests to be made. When a guy stores them up for almost a century, he’s allowed to go a little crazy.

“I don’t want you to hide in the alley when I’m having a bad moment, or a bad day, or even a bad week. We have to do this together if I’m staying.” Bucky was dead serious, because that was the worst thing.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Steve.” He grabbed the back of Steve’s neck and pulled their foreheads together. “I need to know that you want to be with _me_. Because I’m a fucking mess, and that isn’t gonna change anytime soon, if ever.”

Bucky could feel it when they clicked. The gap that had been getting bigger and bigger, finally started pulling back together, and even though it was fragile, at least the edges were touching.

Steve sniffed, then let gave Bucky an Eskimo kiss (because he’ll always be a sap). “I’m a fucking mess too, so…”

“Well, in the great words of Tony Stark and some weird cat, ‘It’s time to make a mess.” He gave himself another selfish pass, and ducked down to kissed Steve’s cheek, before another great reveal. “I don’t want your shitty chickenless soup ever again.”

“It sucks anyway, so no problem there.”

“If you wanna grab your tin full of licorice, and store it next to my throwing knives and my Stark Voodoo doll, that’s cool.”

Steve squeezed his stupid, gigantic, sexy ass, body into the itty bitty space next to Bucky again, and chuckled, “Can I have my own Stark Voodoo doll?”

The rail clicked back into place, and Bucky felt safe for the first time in forever...good god, he didn’t just think that, did he? He better not tell Tony. He would totally sing that entire song, flitting around his workshop, making fun of the lyrics ‘why have a ballroom with no balls?’ That would actually be fucking hilarious. Bucky smirked, as he tried to wiggle up against Steve. “Yeah totally, but you’ve gotta steal the lock of hair this time. He's onto me.”

Fingers crept back over Bucky’s stomach and lifted the edge of his gown; it made his side feel better instantly. “And that surprises you? Obnoxiously leaning over during a briefing with your knife and cutting a giant chunk of hair off the back of Tony’s head, wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Yeah, like I said, he’s onto me. That's why you've gotta do it.”

“I think I can make that work.”

Bucky felt lighter as he curled his hand around Steve’s bare shoulder. “I want you to tie Clint to his bed, so he can’t leave. Not in the kinky way, but in the ‘he can’t ever get hurt again’ way.”

“I know he’s your personal fuzzy blanket but that one ain’t gonna fly. We have to leave the bondage up to Natasha.” Steve squeezed his ass a little, and it made Bucky really miss ‘Steve’s Saturday Night Spanking’. Since he was staying, he needed to ask FRIDAY to add it to his calendar indefinitely.

When he tried to roll closer to Steve, he accidentally bumped the sore spot on his thigh, and his thoughts shifted to something darker. “I wish we could keep everyone safe,” Bucky sniffed. “Don’t you wish we weren’t always losing something?”

“Yeah, Buck. I do.”

“If Clint had really died, I don’t think I would’ve made it out of that water.”  

“I know,” Steve sighed, squeezing Bucky’s stomach tighter and pressing their feet together. “Maybe we both have to realize that roads end, and everything has a time to live, and a time to die.”

Steve’s body was slowly, but surely, wrapping completely around Bucky, which felt so damn good; even though he was pulling Bucky’s hair and pinching the shoulder bandage a little. It didn’t matter, because for the first time in a very long time, Bucky felt _heard_.

“We seem to be the exceptions to that rule so far.”

“Yeah, we do.” Steve mushed his nose against Bucky’s neck, and asked, “What else do you need from me, baby?”

“For a first crack at it, I think we did pretty damn good at this _honesty_ thing. But we shouldn’t add too much to the list right away. It might shock us back into the big, fat, liar zone. Oh, don’t forget the Clint thing... I’m so happy that you’re gonna make sure he never goes on a stupid mission eve…”

“Hey, Buck,” Steve interrupted.

“Hmmmm?”

“Thank you.”

Bucky kissed the top of Steve’s head, that wasn’t quite as stupid as before, and breathed him in. “For what?”

“For finally telling me that my soup sucked,” Steve laughed.

The circulation to his one good arm was getting cut off, but Bucky was too busy letting himself be happy to care. He wiggled enough so he could nibble on Steve’s ear, before asking, “Do you wanna try a new recipe together?”

“Are we still talking about soup?”

Bucky snickered, “Were we ever talking about soup?”

Steve’s hand slid up to the fresh skin, covering the last hints of the word ‘pay’, then whispered, “Maybe back in 1934.”

Bucky outright laughed at that one.

The words were still there, and they always would be, but maybe he’d paid back _just enough_ to let himself have a little something. He managed to dislodge his arm and roll over to nuzzle into Steve’s chest. He smelled cedar and sage; the scent of letting go of the past and embracing the fresh energy of the future. Bucky breathed Steve in, and felt release.

Wanda was such a gift.

*****

 

“Are you ever gonna admit how you fucked up this joint, or are you gonna keep pretending that this _isn’t_ Mac and Cheese? Which it very clearly _is._ I heard you say it was. I have very disturbing video proof.” Tony held the tool in front of his eyes and the crusty orange globs were obvious. “FRIDAY, run this sample. How the fuck is this still in here after being submerged for three days?”

“How about you build me a joint that can’t be fucked up by Macaroni and Cheese?”

Steve smirked, because Bucky had said he was going to have a little fun testing the new waters with Stark. As they’d headed towards the workshop, Bucky’s exact quote was, “I’m gonna test the waters and hope I don’t run into a Great White Stark.” Steve had snorted, because Tony with a fin sticking out of the Mach 47 could really add to the fear factor. ‘Happier Bucky’ was even funnier than ‘Pretending to be Happy Bucky’.

“Oh, look at that.” Tony shook his head. “This arm sort-of (mostly) survived countless brutal shocks, and all I had to fix was most of the wires, most of the shoulder plates, and the majority of the neural connections, and you’re _still_ gonna go there about the Mac and Cheese? You hear that Steve? Your butt buddy finally admitted that he has no respect for my artistry either. Rhodes doesn’t spill Orange Tang on his space age bionic legs. Sam doesn’t stick Laffy Taffy in the directional motors on his wings. Even Barton, who’s a fucking slob, keeps his oozing mozzarella away from his kickass crossbow. But not you, Peppermint Patty. You just stick this glorious piece of engineering in mayonnaise, or honey, or lotion, or whatever you use to stick the hand _that_ _I built_ into Steve’s tight ass.”

Bucky leaned forward in the new chair, that was oddly covered with pink corduroy cushions, and gave Tony his best sassy, cocky and very naughty smile. He’d perfected it in the mirror. “It’s funny, Stark. I could stick the arm that Hydra built in bubbling hot tar, cover it in fluffy chicken feathers, then take a fifteen-year nap at negative two-hundred degrees Celsius, and it wouldn’t need so much as a tune-up. Sorry you’re having trouble matching their craftsmanship.”

Steve was watching them out of the corner of his eye, and trying really hard to make it look like he wasn’t. Olive branches had been extended, in very weird ways, but still extended and tentatively accepted, so Steve was trying to keep his nose buried in his magazine and not get in the middle of it. It was really hard.

He _was_ watching close enough to see the metal arm suddenly jolt off the work table in his peripheral vision, and he cringed when it pulled at the new scar tissue criss-crossing the seam. The spasm ran up Bucky’s left side, tightening his muscles all the way from his stomach, through the shoulder joint, then twisted his neck so hard that his loose hair flopped over his face. Thankfully, the frequency was declining, but every time they happened it was a brutal reminder of what Bucky had been through. Steve’s heartbeat picked up, because this was the first one to hit while Tony was working on the arm.

But nothing happened. Tony just paused, pulled his tool out of the wrist panel, and waited for it to pass. When Bucky blew his hair out of his eyes and put the arm back on the table, Tony rolled his chair a bit to the side, and gently adjusted the angle of the arm so the metal wasn’t putting as much pressure on Bucky’s skin...and that was it. Steve let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and Tony got back to work.

“Did you hear that, Steve? Fräulein Furl just compared my brilliance to Hydra.” He pulled the offending plate out of Bucky’s hand and threw it at the wall above Steve’s head. “See, I can throw stuff too.”

Steve had his feet propped up on the ratty couch, that Tony insisted was a keepsake or something. It had been in the workshop at the tower too, and Tony had been very specific with the movers about transferring it to the compound. It was an ugly, plaid, monstrosity, with cushions that dipped down in the center and a spring always managed to poke Steve in the back. Tony refused to disclose its origins, which made Steve even more curious.

It was Steve’s favorite piece of furniture in the entire compound, and he was enjoying reading ‘Martha Stewart Living’ as he tried to ignore the two dipshits in the room. Sam had gotten him a subscription as a joke, but Martha really had some wonderful recipes.

Tony licked his teeth and did his best to hide the hint of a smile. “You gonna help me out here, Steve? Defend my honor? Come to my rescue? Throw _your_ shield in between us?”

“Nope.” Steve flipped a page. Hmm, maybe they could try this pie? His stomach rumbled.

“Well, well, well.” Tony spun around twice on his stool before wheeling back in front of Bucky with the new plate and a challenge in his eye. “It’s just my luck. Comrade Cornhole’s been let off the leash. FRIDAY, make a campus wide announcement to watch out for corn poop.”

Bucky, decked out in his new ‘Jaws’ t-shirt (yes, he wore that on purpose), a loose pair of navy sweats, and his Vans, caught Steve’s eye. It was a test; five toes stuck into Steve’s waters to see if he was gonna bite.

He circled for a second, sniffing at those toes, before swimming in the opposite direction. Flipping the page to a very impressive pot roast, he deadpanned, “No need, we haven’t eaten corn in months...it’s not good for our sex life.”

The snort that came out of Bucky’s mouth was so loud that Tony jumped. His smile was pure sunshine and it made Steve’s heart sing; It was crinkled eyes, slightly crooked teeth, and full of joy. The laugh that rose up from Bucky’s belly made his head tip backwards, the muscles of his abs rising and falling, with the simple bliss of a horrible joke.

Tony made a stank face, and bitched, “It wasn’t funny, well maybe a tiny bit funny, but certainly not worthy of this over-the-top reaction.” He was trying to stifle a smile, which meant the waters were all clear.

“Steve and I are hilarious,” Bucky snickered. “Although you might not have noticed while you were busy turning The Avengers against each other, trying to throw me in prison, and blowing off my arm. It’s kinda hard to make good jokes while I’m running from a giant ego stuffed in a tin can.”

“Well, that’s just an inability to multitask.” Tony popped on the new hand plate, and leaned back to inspect his handiwork. “You should really work on that; so many missed opportunities for high quality humor while I was kicking your ass.”

“So, the next time Steve’s straddling your chest like an angry cowgirl, _his_ shield raised in the air ready to annihilate you, I can scream, ‘Off with his head! Off with his head!’ and you’d be totally cool with it?”

“Well, that’s less like a joke, more like a witty movie reference...funnier if I picture you like Helena Bonham Carter with the giant noggin.” Tony stretched his arms out around his head and wobbled it back and forth like a supersize bobble-head. “You’d have trouble fitting your face between Steve’s asscheeks at that size.”

Now Steve was the one doing the snorting.

“You’re right, it wouldn’t. But lucky for Steve, I have a very long tongue.” Bucky winked at Steve, and he knew; no shark bites today.

Tony slapped both hands on his knees and laughed openly, before chuckling, “Not bad for a reformed evil assassin, not bad at all.” Pointing at Bucky in mock seriousness, he continued, “But ‘yo momma’ jokes are off the table indefinitely.”

They exchanged sad little smiles and nods, before Tony grabbed for the hand again.

“Okay, Bucky, ready to get this fixed?”

“Yeah, Tony, I am.”

He started screwing in the plate, sans Macaroni and Cheese, and replied, “Me too.”

Steve laid back on the ratty couch and put his feet up, propping Martha Stewart over his face like a tent, as he relaxed back into the cushions.

*****

 

Having Bucky back in the middle of their bed, with the blue comforter bunched up in a big, wrinkled mess around their half-naked bodies was surreal. Wonderful, but at the same time so perfect that Steve felt like it he might be in the middle of a painting by Magritte or Dali. But there were no upsidedown clouds, long legged elephants, or melting clocks; just the work of modern art sitting in a pair of black gym shorts with his legs spread out, with his hair artfully piled on top of his head.

The serum was starting to catch up, and big ropes of fresh pink scar tissue were starting to make their way over his shoulder. It was such a relief. The rest of the cuts and bruises were fading, most of them shadows under freshly healed skin, but Steve knew he’d always remember those bloody words carved into the tiny little hairs on Bucky’s chest. It was his job to remember, because it tied him to Bucky...to _this_ Bucky...who still felt like he wasn’t good enough.

But he was doing better; they both were. They’d been back at the compound for a few days, and they were starting to pay more attention, to learn one another, and Steve hadn’t gone to the alley once. Yesterday, when Bucky got angry that Ross was screaming for Steve’s head after he’d figured out what happened in Odessa, they flung twenty-two knives together, ate an entire gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream, then held each other on the couch for forty-five minutes. It was cathartic. Afterwards, Steve happily sat in between Bucky’s legs to watch ‘Die Hard’ and he’d realized that he never wanted to go back to that alley.

Today had been a good day. Bucky had laid down the law about peppers with the chef, had asked Sam how to deal with the flashbacks, and had done some one-handed shadow boxing with Clint. Now, Steve was lying on his side so that one of Bucky’s feet was touching his forehead and the other one was poking at his knees. He was naked, except for the tiny red boxer briefs Bucky had bought for him online. They were so tight, but Bucky’s appreciative glances made the snug fit completely worth it.

“I still can’t believe you got Sam to make this.” Bucky rotated the fresh apple pie in the space between his legs, and looked properly impressed.

“I told him that you called Tony an ‘ego in a tin can’ and he was more than happy to oblige.”

The tendrils of brown hair that had escaped the red rubber band, swung around Bucky’s face as he shook his head with a big grin. “Why does everyone make me food?”

He wiggled his toes on Steve’s forehead, which Bucky knew he was powerless to resist. True to form Steve kissed up the sole before nibbling on his pinky toe. God, his feet. Steve was so damn thankful for the tiny little toe between his lips. Planting one more kiss on the tip, he said, “Well, Bucky, you made it very clear, that _I’m_ not allowed to whip you up apple pies to keep you from talking about your emotions.”

“So you got Sam to make it? This was pretty sly of you.”

Bucky’s other foot slid in between Steve’s knees and started a slow migration up the space between his thighs. They hadn’t done anything more than snuggle and kiss since Bucky got out of that hospital bed; it hadn’t seemed right. If they were starting over fresh, then _everything_ should start fresh. But as those irresistible toes wiggled upwards, Steve couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to show Bucky how much he loved him...right here, right now...in 2017.

“You told me not to make you shitty chickenless soup, you never told me that getting Sam Wilson to bake us a delicious apple pie was off the table.” Steve stretched his arm over Bucky’s shin to grab the silverware and plates, because it smelled like heaven and he was starving.

“Oh, there he is,” Bucky laughed. “Devious Steve Rogers reveals himself. I like it.” He snatched a fork out of Steve’s hand and stabbed it right in the middle of the criss-cross crust. “I don’t know if this qualifies as a step in the right direction though...maybe half a step.”

“I’ve been making you shitty chickenless soup since 1934, Buck. It’s gonna take me a minute to change my ways.”

The fork swirled in a circle in the middle of the pie and Bucky dug out a huge bite. Shoving it in his mouth, he mumbled, “Jesus, this is so fucking good!”

“You’re not mad about the pie?”

He swallowed and gave Steve a warm look, before replying, “As long as we’re heading in the right direction.”

The compass had finally stopped spinning, and he knew exactly where they needed to go. It was so easy to answer, “Due north.”

Steve hadn’t told Bucky everything that happened during the days he was gone (although explaining the pool table was unavoidable), and he hadn’t mentioned anything about Sister Alice’s ghost chasing him around in Odessa...but he wanted to. And he knew that Bucky still hadn’t told him everything that was going on inside his mind when he was putting himself through that hell...but Steve knew that he wanted to.

That was north. His compass had finally locked onto the magnetic pole, and they were walking towards it half-naked with a freshly baked apple pie. The smiles they exchanged were like a fresh coat of pure white snow. Maybe they could learn how to snowboard next winter?

Bucky scooped out another bite and leaned forward to put it into Steve’s mouth. “I can’t believe Sam did this criss cross thing on top?” Bucky said, poking at the woven crust with his metal finger. It looks like a sweet old grandma baked this with her family’s treasured secret recipe. How’d he even do this?”

“Martha Stewart. She’s the real deal” Steve deadpanned, letting the apples slide into his belly.

“Even Snoop agrees,” Bucky giggled. He took the plates and put them back on the other side of his leg, then threw the knife and the second fork on the floor. It was totally ridiculous, but it made Steve feel butterflies in his stomach. “Hey, we’ve gotta save a piece for Clint.”

Another bite got placed between Steve’s lips, this one _way_ too big, and a big piece of crust landed next to Bucky’s foot on the comforter. Normally he would have picked it up immediately, and used his fingernails to capture every single crumb, but he didn’t get that urge. It was fine there. Steve started to feel like he was flying; and it had nothing to do with supersonic planes, angel wings, or the bitter wrath of Revelation. It was just simplicity: Bucky’s toes inching towards his tiny red underwear, a random pattern of crumbs on a bed, music he’d never heard before playing in the background...and Bucky. He was so in love with _Bucky._

Steve nodded at the giant hole in the middle of the pie, and laughed, “I don’t think Clint would want a piece now, you’ve pretty much destroyed it. Anyway, Sam made another one. When I left, he was cutting it into pieces, and putting them in little boxes with everyone’s name written on them in fancy cursive. He was strutting around the kitchen like he was Martha herself. Such a show off.”

“Even a piece for Tony?”

“Even a piece for Tony.”

“Good.” Bucky dropped the fork over the edge of the bed and stuck his index finger in the hole, looping a mountain of crumbs and gooey apple filling on the end of the metal. “Everyone deserves to eat this masterpiece,” he chuckled, shoving the finger into his mouth.

Steve stuck his finger in the middle too, and it felt amazing. “Even Tony?”

“ _Especially_ Tony.”

Their dirty fingers drew Steve’s attention; and the crumbs, and the caved in criss-cross pie, and he said exactly what he was thinking on this new road north. “Even you?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking that I didn’t deserve any pie since the summer of 1934, so it’s gonna take me a minute to break the habit.” He winked, and Steve felt the blush creeping up his neck. Bucky had _never_ winked at him before, and it was so sexy. This stunning, fucked-up man with the heavy five-o’clock shadow, and the medley of scars, winked at him, before pointing at the pie. “I think we should finish this whole thing.”

“With our fingers?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Bucky dramatically scooped the equivalent of five bites onto his flesh hand.

“The end of civility and manners?” Steve snorted, and dug his hand in too.

“No Steve, the beginning of sharing it all.”

God, Steve adored him.

Who knew that a homemade apple pie could be so much more than apples and crust? Steve sat up, and crawled across the pie, to smear the goop around Bucky’s ribcage. He didn’t avoid the indentation from the stab wound in his side, and let his fingers linger there a moment before sliding it up to the damaged skin under his arm. “I’m so mad at you for this.”

Bucky gently touched Steve’s hand, but made no effort to move or wipe off the dripping apples. “I’m not sorry I let it happen.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“It got us here.”

Steve sniffed and took a deep breath, because somehow it had. Despite the cuts, bruises, stitches, and seizures, he felt so grateful that the wounds were on the outside of Bucky now. And not just the physical ones. He was finally letting himself see the details of each injury, instead of trying to quickly patch them up before Bucky could even express their pain.

“So, this is honesty huh?” Steve crawled forward, his knee landing in the middle of the pie, and licked across Bucky’s collar bone.

“I guess it is,” Bucky moaned, as Steve smeared a line down the center of his abs. “Honesty is really messy.”

He let his fingers dip below the waistband of Bucky’s shorts, not far, just enough to feel the warmth of the skin over his adonis line, and whispered, “Do you mind?”

“Not one bit, as long as you keep telling me how mad you are while licking pie off my nipples.” Bucky climbed into his lap and made a point of rubbing up against Steve’s tiny red underwear. He did a particularly wonderful motion, and murmured, “And you need to use that lavender soap, that Wanda gave us, to wash me down in the shower later.”

“Can I wash your feet?”

“You’re such a creep about my feet.”

“I’m about to be a real creep and make love to you in this pie.”

Steve let his other hand travel down Bucky’s right arm, to the skin of his wrist where the last remnants of the deep red burns were fading to pure new skin. “They cut off the bracelet.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. When the first shock hit me through the shackle, it burned off.”

Carefully touching the pink skin, Steve whispered, “It’s almost healed now.”

“Yeah, it’s well on its way.”

Bucky sat back on his lap a little bit, then looped his metal finger underneath the red bracelet on Steve’s wrist. He gave it a gentle tug, and tipped his head to the side. Steve could hear him, every thought, every emotion, everything that hurt...it was all there in the subtle tip of his chin; all Steve had to do was listen.

“You think it’s time, Buck?”

“Yeah, Stevie, I do.”

Steve took a minute to let history flow backwards, flipping faster and faster through the memories of every red circle they’d tied since the first gooey seal in the summer of 1934. He took a minute to remember each one before releasing them, leaving Stevie behind. He moved his lips so they hovered an inch away from Bucky’s, so he could share his air in 2017, and it felt like freedom.

“Break it.”

Bucky leaned back, and his smile was a revelation. “Steve, you’re absolutely sure?”

“Just do it,” Steve beamed, because he was entirely positive.

Metal snapped the three red strings like they were nothing...but as the strands unwound and tumbled onto the wrinkled, messy comforter...they both knew better.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find lucidnancyboy / Jessie Lucid Art on tumblr, AO3 and Instagram.
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> [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidnancyboy/pseuds/Lucidnancyboy/works)
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> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/jessielucidart/)
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> Find drjezdzany / Lorien on tumblr and AO3.
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> [Tumblr](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
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> [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorien/pseuds/Lorien/works)
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> Thank you to everyone for reading! We had the best time creating this story and art! We'd love to hear your thoughts, so give that comment box some love and we can cry about our sad, stupid, boys together. 
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> We are also very excited to announce that there will be a sequel! I've promised Lorien lots of fuzzy kittens and an in depth exploration of Steve's toe fetish! XD Hugs to everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> Find Lorien/drjezdzany here
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> [Drjezdzany](http://drjezdzany.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art/)
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> Find lucidnancyboy/Jessie Lucid Art here 
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> We can’t wait to hear your thoughts! Sending you big comforting hugs!


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